


A Dog Named Sunshine

by Onemillionbucks



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Anxiety, Artist Steve Rogers, Basically, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Depersonalization, Depression, Dissociation, Eating Disorders, Everyone Has Issues, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Psychological Trauma, Service Dogs, Slow Build, Somewhat, Therapy, Unreliable Narrator, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, War Veteran Sam Wilson, War Veteran Steve Rogers, a lotta crying, a lotta dogs, also, basically the full range of mental health problems, but the last one is just briefly, everyone's a war veteran, five chapters into this i'm realizing i never tagged that this is a no powers au, i feel like all these tags represent me and my personality on a spiritual level, the last two chapters are info chapters!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2018-10-17 16:33:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 106,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onemillionbucks/pseuds/Onemillionbucks
Summary: Bucky Barnes has issues. Mental health issues, and a whole lot of them, to be precise.Bucky is fucked up, and he knows that. His apartment looks like a dumping ground on most days, he can’t sleep through the night, sometimes he doesn’t shower for six days and doesn’t leave the house except to see his therapist once a week. Mostly, Bucky has no idea how the whole “talking about your problems” thing is supposed to help him, but sometimes his therapist has some really great ideas.Like getting a dog.Which is how Bucky meets Steve. Steve has blond hair and shoulders as broad as Bucky’s future if he wouldn’t suffer from depression and multiple mental disorders, and a waist as small as Bucky’s self-esteem. Steve also has a yellowish dog with floppy ears called Sunshine. And sunshine makes its way into Bucky’s life with a bounce in its step.





	1. a way to recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! When I started this fic almost a year ago, I would’ve never thought it would get so big. Over this time, I have listened to quite a few songs while writing, and I have collected them in a [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/lhannanas/playlist/4H63GxmSKRYxWo5UArHXGw?si=y3wwCrTrSHKvPMOYzRHV4Q), that you can listen to if you like.  
> Sadly the few songs don’t cover all of the time you would take for reading this story at once, which should be about 8 hours (so buckle up, you’re in for a ride), but only for two hours approximately. I am currently moving them around into contextual order, six or so are explicitly tied to a specific chapter, if that’s the case, I will tell you so in the notes, in front of that chapter. Now I won't bother you any further, have fun reading!

 

Bucky’s been staring out the window for two hours. Honestly, it’s not that much of an accomplishment, but it’s worth mentioning.

His therapist would congratulate him on it, saying “it’s the small things”, but really, Bucky doesn’t see how moving from his bed or the sofa to the crappy armchair in front of the window is any step forward.

Now his therapist would say that he shouldn’t diminish every single one of his achievements, whether that’s getting out of bed, putting on some clothes, or just moving from the bed to the armchair in front of the window. Sometimes he has no idea how he’s supposed to believe that shit. Getting out of bed shouldn’t be an achievement. It’s a basic necessity that humans have to do, in order to get anything done. Not that he ever gets anything done. The last time he’s showered was somewhere around last week, and he hasn’t eaten anything after yesterday’s lunch, which consisted of pizza from the day before.

You could say that Bucky is a little fucked up.

He knows that.

He knows he’s fucked up, and he still keeps on staring out of the window, sitting in his armchair with his favorite sweater and his favorite sweatpants on, that really belong into the washing machine, his unwashed, greasy, long hair, a beard that hasn’t seen a razor in at least three weeks, and an empty stomach.

Not that he’s hungry.

Or that he cares about his appearance a lot.

Bucky hasn’t cared about anything a lot for a while now.

He watches an old lady go across the street with her stupid little dog that keeps pulling the leash and peeing at every vertical object they come across. It’s the thirteenth dog he’s seen in his two hours of staring out of the window.

His therapist has suggested he’d get a dog, but Bucky had looked at her and asked dryly how he should care for another living being when he can’t even care for himself.

The old lady almost trips as her dog pulls a little harder when it sees another dog, a little bigger than itself, but that’s not really hard. The thing comes close to a rat.

It’s not like he doesn’t like dogs. Dogs are okay, he guesses. He doesn’t like company. Or human interaction.

The slightly bigger rat and the smaller rat are now barking at each other (if you can call it that way), and the old lady has trouble keeping her own rat by her side without tripping or dropping her bag. There are groceries inside, and it reminds Bucky about how he hasn’t got anything in his fridge but ketchup, a package of butter and a few slices of cheese.

He’ll go shopping tomorrow. He still has some leftover pizza, he tells himself.

The lady now passes out of his field of view, and Bucky doesn’t bother moving to see where she is going. He doesn’t care anyway.

The other rat and its owner now make their way horizontally through Bucky’s window, this time it’s a man in a suit on the phone. He doesn’t look like the typical dog owner, so maybe it’s his girlfriend’s. Or boyfriend’s. Bucky doesn’t care anyway.

Shifting slightly, because he notices that his foot has fallen asleep, he sighs, but can’t bring himself to get up and do something else. Not that he would actually know what to do with himself.

 _Showering could be a start,_ a little voice on his shoulder says.

 _If I could only bring myself to do that,_ he answers the little voice silently and keeps on staring out of the window.

It has snowed actually, somewhere over the past week, he isn’t sure when. He hasn’t left his apartment since his weekly appointment with his therapist, and the sitting-by-the-window-thing has only developed since the day before yesterday.

Most people in the city don’t seem to enjoy the snow and Bucky is one of them, although he has to admit that the park in front of his apartment building does look pretty. Everything is covered in a thin layer of snow, and if Bucky didn’t hate the cold and if he didn’t have a major depression and some serious PTSD combined with anxiety, he would probably go for a walk.

Yeah, who is he kidding? Probably not even then.

A new dog enters the park. This one is big, it would probably reach up over his knee, has longish yellow fur, floppy ears and hops through the snow as if it has never seen anything better. A leash flies behind the dog, and Bucky assumes that it must’ve run off, until a huge man in a beanie and a winter jacket comes flying behind the dog, and starts playing with it in the snow. Soon they’re both lying in the white powder, and seem like they’re having a great time.

Bucky sighs and wishes he could say the same about himself.

 ~~~

He goes to his therapist the next day, so he has to shower and put on some new clothes (so that he just gives the illusion of having his shit together), and when he’s outside, the hood of his sweater over his head and some headphones in his ears, he sees the man and his dog again. They’re playing ball this time.

Bucky doesn’t care any further and goes into the next back alley so he doesn’t have to actually meet any humans aside from his therapist today. The walk to his therapist’s office is rather long, it’s half an hour, and it would probably take only ten minutes if he took the subway, but he has something about enclosed small spaces with no escape route. So he rather walks. Even if that means that he has to really keep an eye on his phone so he doesn’t miss getting there on time. Bucky and time management aren’t really getting along.

It’s still cold outside and it has snowed again overnight, and in some alleys there aren’t any footprints aside from a few small cat paws passing through, but some other streets don’t have a single speck of white anywhere anymore, everything has melted together into a mixture of slush and dirt.

He arrives at his therapist’s office with cold hands and dirty shoes. Not that he cares.

 ~~~

“You need a hobby,” his therapist, Mrs. Milton says. “Something that makes you leave the house.”

“I don’t want to leave the house,” Bucky answers.

“I know,” Mrs. Milton says, “but that won’t make your anxiety or your depression better.”

Bucky knows that, too.

“Do you still want to get better?”

What kind of a question is that? It’s not like he enjoys wasting his life away. “Yeah,” he says.

“You have to do something for that, James, recovery doesn’t come magically with a snap of your fingers. It’s hard, yes, but it will get better.”

He’s tired of hearing it. _It will get better,_ yeah sure, it will. He’d just like it to be better _now_ , please. If it was that easy, he wouldn’t be sitting here. “Okay,” he says, because he won’t be rude to her like that, depression or not, he still has some decency. Also, he’s not much of a talker. But that’s rather obvious.

“So, do we agree on the hobby?”

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Better than a no,” his therapist smiles. She has a really nice smile. One that will make you feel welcome instantly, one that says, “you can tell me everything and I will listen”. Bucky guesses that’s handy since it’s her job to listen to everything. It’s still a nice smile. If Bucky was feeling any better, he’d probably smile back.

“I’m thinking about something that will get you outdoors, but not interact with as many people. Anything comes in mind?”

Bucky thinks about it for a second, but his mind is pretty blank. He shakes his head.

“Are you still saying no to a dog?” She is softly tapping her pen against her clipboard.

Bucky sighs.

“What about going to a shelter and walking a dog, just once per week, maybe an hour, or one and a half?”

Bucky sighs again. He has nothing against dogs. No, really. Dog’s are okay. Humans are the ones that bother him constantly. Humans and their _talking_.

“Yes,” his therapist smiles, “it includes a mandatory of talking to someone, but that won’t be much. It’s less talking than what you do with me.”

Once a week. Rationally seen, that’s not that much.

“So, what do you say, James? Is that okay with you? It’s not as much responsibility like owning a dog.”

He still doesn’t say anything, he’s making a list of pros and cons in his head. (It’s one of those things he’s learned in therapy, since he can’t seem to decide on anything most of the time.)

 

_Pros:_

_outside_

_dog_

_fresh air_

_possibly a step to recovery_

 

_Cons:_

_possibly other humans_

_possibly dog poop_

_minimum of human interaction_

 

If he’s reasonable, the pros overweigh the cons. Both meeting other people and the dog poop are just possibilities, but the points on the pro side will definitely happen (except the step to recovery, but there’s a possibility that this whole thing will help).

“It’s going to lift your mood, trust me,” his therapist says.

He adds it to the list.

“Okay,” he says after a short silence. “I’ll do it.”

It feels way bigger than it actually is, saying those words.

“Wonderful,” Mrs. Milton smiles, and takes down a note on her piece of paper. She gets up and goes to her computer, and then she and Bucky look at shelters that need dog walkers.

They pick out one close enough to Bucky’s apartment so he can walk there, and then their time is already over.

Bucky leaves with a telephone number and a grumble in his stomach. He hasn’t eaten anything today. He stops at a small seven-eleven and picks up a sandwich and some ramen. Old Bucky would’ve hated ramen. But it’s okay, new Bucky’s standards for food have sunken insanely low with the progression of his mental illness. At the checkout, he eyes the cigarettes. Should he really start smoking again? Sighing he grumbles to the cashier something about number 53 and takes a package of cigarettes with him.

When he arrives back at his apartment building, the man and his yellow dog are gone, but have been replaced with what Bucky identifies as a German Shepherd and its owner. The girl is wearing a figure-hugging leather jacket with a black scarf around her neck. Bucky approves of that color.

He goes up all the stairs to the sixth level, luckily meeting no one in the progress, and opens the door to his apartment. Quietly closing the door behind him, Bucky grabs the combat knife hidden in the pot of a dead flower right next to the door, and then stealthily sneaks through the kitchen, the living room, his bedroom and finally the bathroom. He can’t find an intruder anywhere, so the knife goes back into the flower pot, and his shoes go next to it. The sandwich he bought and the pack of smokes join him in the armchair in the living room. He opens the window as he smokes, but soon the cold and the noise from outside irritate him enough to only smoke one and then proceed with his sandwich.

It’s a good sandwich, at least for someone who doesn’t eat regularly on a daily basis. He doesn’t know how that happened if he’s honest. He never thought he’d be the eating disorder type of guy, but here he is. It’s not that he thinks he’s too fat or whatever bullshit, no, Bucky just somehow doesn’t like eating anymore. And most of the time, he’s just not hungry. Sometimes he also doesn’t eat because he feels like punishing himself. It’s stupid, he knows that.

His phone gives off a soft “ding”, alerting him to a new message. He pulls his most costly possession out of his jeans pocket and reads a message from his therapist. **_Don’t forget to call the shelter! Write me back, when you’ve done it._ **

Sometimes Bucky hates his therapist. But then, she’s just doing her job.

Calling people has somehow sneaked itself into Bucky’s list of things that scare him shitless. He doesn’t know how that happened either. Sometimes, if he has a really bad day, he even gets panic attacks just from thinking about calling someone. Today isn’t a bad day, so Bucky gets over himself. He doesn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Milton. She really does her best.

He calls the shelter and only feels a little bit sick.

A young woman answers the phone. “Paws of Love - Animal Rescue outpost Brooklyn New York, good afternoon?”

“Uh hi, I’d like to volunteer for dog walking.” Bucky rolls his eyes at himself. _Really smooth, Barnes._

“Oh, cool, we’ve been looking for some dog walkers for a while now. Uh, so, what’s your name and how often can you come by?”

“James Barnes, and… once a week.”

“Wonderful. Okay, Mr. Barnes, have you had experience with dogs before?”

“My family had a dog when I was growing up,” he says as he watches the park. The woman in black and her Shepherd have stopped to interact with a guy with a Husky.

“Sounds pretty good. Would you rather walk a small, or a bigger dog?”

Bucky shrugs and realizes that she can’t see him. “I don’t mind either.”

He hears the woman typing on a keyboard. “We have a few big dogs that would need some walking, that are mostly not getting picked by other walkers. Are you okay with a rottweiler? Milly’s trained and super well behaved, but most people are scared of her.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky answers.

“What about 3 pm on Thursdays, does that work for you?”

It does work for Bucky, so they make a date for Bucky to visit first, he’ll have to sign some papers and meet the dog, but it’s happening. It’s the most committing thing that Bucky has done since starting therapy a few months ago.

He texts Mrs. Milton back. **_Done. Thursdays 3pm_ **

**_Very good! I’ll check in on you on Thursday then. Have a good day, James :-)_ **

He almost has to smile at the emoji and texts back **_You too!_ **

Going on watching the guy with the Husky and the girl with the Shepherd, he leans back in his armchair, a little proud of himself.

The next day, Wednesday, Bucky wakes up on the couch from a nightmare. It’s still somewhat dark outside, and suddenly the enclosure of the apartment and the heavy silence are too much for him. He’s outside in an instance, feeling off, far away from reality, as if someone had wrapped him in a big cloud of cotton. The cold stings on his skin, and the wind howls strangely in his ears as he runs. His lungs hurt, and his ears are ringing, and when he comes back to the world, he finds himself sitting on a park bench, out of breath, with ice cold hands, and wet cheeks.

It happens rather often these days, that Bucky loses control over himself and can’t remember what he’s done for the past four hours when he looks on his watch, or that he feels like he isn’t in his body, that his body is working without him having any influence on it. It’s scary and alarmingly dangerous.

His therapist had explained it to him as “dissociation”, or also “depersonalization”. On the question of why this happens to him, his therapist had explained that 90% of trauma patients experience dissociation, mostly when there had been a traumatic event in their childhood.

Bucky can’t remember if there had been a traumatic event in his childhood, and he doesn’t want to know either. Some things are best left alone.

He wipes the tears from his cheeks, and tries to get his breathing under control, but telling by the ache in his legs and the sting in his heart, he must’ve run for longer than he normally could. Adrenaline is a wondrous hormone.

His vision is blurry and his stomach starts hurting; he begins to feel sick. Both motion-sick and I-haven’t-eaten-enough-over-the-past-five-weeks-so-my-body-is-running-on-fumes-and-can’t-do-anything-more-than-basic-functioning-sick. The running was too much.

Not that he could’ve done anything against it.

“Hey, hey buddy, are you alright?” someone says, a few feet away, so Bucky looks up. It’s the guy with the yellow dog with the floppy ears. Latter is standing in front of him, tail-wagging and panting, with it’s soft, wet nose against Bucky’s cold fingers.

From close up, Bucky can see a few strands of blond hair peeking out from under the guy’s beanie. He is built like a brick house and wears only a long sleeved running shirt, with sweat stains under his arms and on his chest. He probably has been running. Healthily running, not running-for-your-life, like Bucky just did.

He nods, still out of breath, still a little spaced out. “I’m fine,” he brings out, his voice sounds raw, as if it hadn’t been used in years.

“Are you sure?” the guy asks again, and looks at him, with a concerned look on his face. “I saw you running as if there was something chasing after you.”

 _Just the past,_  Bucky’s inner voice jokes softly.

“It’s fine, really,” he answers, and sounds almost like the dog right in front of him. And to prove that he is fine, Bucky pushes himself up from the bench, shaking calves and everything, and then he has to puke.

There doesn’t come much out, just a bit of sandwich from yesterday, a glass of water he had at about 5 am, and some gastric juice.

The guy is by his side at an instance and holds his arm and grabs his shoulder, and Bucky would push him away if his stomach wasn’t cramping and trying to get out everything that’s inside it.

The puking and dry heaving don't last long, it’s over after a minute, but Bucky can still feel himself breaking out in cold sweat and his legs are giving out. The guy puts him back on the bench, gives him a tissue and a bottle of water he is carrying with him. The dog has sat down at the blond guy’s feet, with its tail softly wagging from side to side, pushing the snow on the ground into two piles.

Bucky drinks the water and cleans out his mouth, and doesn’t know why this stranger is helping him. He probably looks like a hobo, with his old, dirty clothes, his long, uncombed hair (at least it’s semi-clean), and the rampant three-week beard.

“Should I call someone? Can someone pick you up?” the blond guy still suggests, and sits down on the bench next to him.

Bucky feels sick again just at the thought of thinking of asking any of his friends for help. Well. If they still are his friends. He hasn’t been answering their calls and texts for weeks, partially months, and when they come around to his apartment, he pretends to not be home.

“I’m fine,” he says again, and the guy laughs softly.

“Buddy, you’re not fine. C’mon, lemme help you. Give me your phone and tell me who to call.”

Bucky wants to prove that he’s fine, when he tries to get up, but get’s held back by Blondie. He can’t fight against him, the guy is much stronger than him. “Hey, hey, stay seated, okay? You just puked your soul out of your body after making a almost one-mile long sprint through the park.” The hand on his shoulder stays there, and Bucky softly shrugs it away. The guy gets it and pulls his hand away to pet his dog. “So, just tell me who to call, or I’ll have to call an ambulance.” He already pulls out his own phone, fingers hovering over the number pad.

Ambulance? Now, that’s not cool. “No, okay, just…” Bucky scrambles out his phone out of his jeans pocket with stiff and shaking fingers. It’s probably just 39 degrees or something. He’s wearing nothing but jeans, shoes and a hooded sweater that sticks to his wet and cold skin.

He hands Blondie the phone reluctantly, feeling tense and his heart rate goes up drastically again.

“Okay, buddy,” the guy mumbles softly, “who should I call?”

“Sam, probably,” Bucky answers, his breathing already going ragged again. Sam understands PTSD, he’s conducting a self-help group for vets, so he’ll maybe be understanding as to why Bucky hasn’t talked to him in almost four months. Maybe. He’ll probably just be angry.

The guy calls Sam and puts the phone to his ear, the other hand still in his dog’s fur. The dog has shuffled over slightly and is putting its head on Bucky’s thighs. Bucky appreciates the comfort, but he would rather tell the dog that it’s okay, and that he doesn’t need help. But, the dog just wouldn’t understand that.

Since it’s dead silent in the park (the trees swallow every sound of traffic, the snow helping with that), he can hear the line ringing and when Sam picks up.

He feels sick again. But this time, not vomiting-sick, more of ashamed-sick. His breathing still isn’t better and he’s pretty sure he’s about to panic.

“Bucky? Dear god, are you fine? I’ve been calling you for months! What’s up? Are you okay?” Sam says from the other end.

“Hey, am I speaking with Sam?” Blondie asks, his hand still the dog’s fur. Bucky silently thanks the guy that he doesn’t look at him.

“Yes, this is Sam. Where’s Bucky? Is he okay?” Sam sounds insanely worried.

Bucky feels the blood rushing through his whole face, it makes his skin tingle painfully. He’s panicking. _Great_.

The guy looks over at him and gives a short description of where they are, and adds, “I think he’s hyperventilating right now.”

“I’m on my way. Can you give him to me?”

“Sure,” the guy answers, and gives Bucky the phone into his sweaty hands.

Bucky feels a little bit like dying, but it’s okay, he knows he’s panicking. He’s not dying, just panicking. He’s not dying, just panicking. _Just panicking. Not dying._

“Hey, Bucky, buddy, are you having a panic attack? You need to breathe, okay? It’s fine, I’m coming to get you, okay?”

Bucky emits some sound that he doesn’t know what it’s supposed to mean, and feels guilt wash over him once more. He’s been pushing Sam away for _four_ months, and he still wants to help him. He doesn’t deserve a friend like Sam.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying again, only when Sam tells him, “Bucky, it’s fine, I am coming over. Crying won’t help you breathe right now. C’mon, you can do this. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re not dying. It’s _fine_.”

Bucky doesn’t feel fine, and he doesn’t stop panicking until Sam is there, ten minutes later, going down in a squat in front of him, taking his hands and helping him to breathe. The guy stays with them, the dog’s face still on Bucky’s lap.

Bucky cries again (and god damn, he hates the crying), when Sam then pulls him into his arms, tells him how good it is to see him, and how much he missed him.

When Bucky has calmed down, Sam shakes the guy’s hand, and thanks him, and the guy goes on jogging with his dog.

Sam takes Bucky back to his apartment with his car, his friend bombarding him with questions. Not really bombarding, but Bucky is oversensitive at the moment. At the apartment, Sam puts Bucky under a blanket on the sofa, not commenting on the state the apartment is in, and makes them both coffee. Bucky hasn’t drunk any coffee for months now. He just couldn’t get up to make some, or buy new coffee pads for the machine. Obviously Sam has found some in the kitchen cupboards. The coffee he gets handed tastes like some kind of heaven that Bucky was sure wouldn't exist for him.

When Sam sits down next to him, with a smile on his lips, Bucky can’t help but softly smile back. It’s the first smile in weeks.

“Thanks,” he says.

“I’ll always be there for you,” Sam answers to that and puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Bucky, you can call me anytime you need me.”

“I know,” Bucky murmurs and takes another sip of his coffee.

They watch tv, Bucky falls asleep on Sam’s shoulder and wakes up to the smell of Chinese takeout. He can’t eat much of it because the constant lack of food has made his stomach not take a lot of it at once. Sam eats the rest of Bucky’s menu.

Sam stays, the whole day, evening, night, and even the next morning. Bucky tells him about his therapist and the dog walking at the shelter a few blocks away. Sam is proud of him. Sam in return tells him about his work, the self-help group, his new girlfriend Maria and their cat.

Bucky smiles more on the day with Sam than he has in the last three weeks.

When Sam leaves, he warns Bucky about coming over again on the weekend, and that he’ll better open up, or Sam will kick the door in. Bucky promises to open the door, and watches Sam take off in his car through the window in the living room. He showers and gets dressed, and then waits out his appointment at the shelter.

He sends his therapist a pic of the dog but doesn’t mention his panic attack or the constant state of depersonalization he feels in. She would want him to come over for an emergency session and he really doesn’t want that. It isn’t that bad.

The dog is a cutie, actually, and Bucky realizes that he’s not only okay with dogs but that he likes them a lot. He walks half an hour with her and then goes back home, his mood lifted. The rest of the day he spends with cooking something for dinner and then eating in front of the window.

He spots the man and his dog from yesterday again, and thinks about how nice that complete stranger had been to him. He wonders what the dog’s name is.

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> when you find any major mistakes, feel free to correct me, english is not my native language!  
> if any of you feel like bucky, or feel similar to something that bucky describes, know that there is always help and you are never alone! I myself have bad mental health so feel free to message me if you wanna talk or vent, i can probably relate. you can find me for example on tumblr (captainplum.tumblr.com).  
> so if you feel like there is no way out, there's a list of helplines in the very last chapter. there is help for you, no matter how unlikely it seems and you will feel better.  
> in the second last chapter, there is also a tiny list i made for getting out of a mood drop caused by depression!


	2. service dog, don't pet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little disclaimer ahead: bucky will mention "patriotic bullshit" like joining the army twice, and being a traumatized and depressed asshat, he hasn't got anything nice to say about his time serving.  
> don't think that i don't respect soldiers and members of the army who lay down their lives and serve their country, i do, deeply. whatever bucky's saying doesn't reflect my own opinion in any way (except i explicitly say so).

 

Bucky can’t sleep on Friday night. Sometimes (more often than Bucky likes) this will happen, he’ll lie down and whatever he does, he just won’t fall asleep. After an hour or so he will get up again, and do something else. Tonight he turns on his TV and watches a documentary about Africa. At 1 am he gets hungry and makes himself the ramen he had bought just a few days ago. While the water boils, he goes through the living room that is only lit by the TV, and over to the window. It’s somewhat dark, if you leave light pollution aside, the few shops from across the street light up the wet asphalt, the snow has almost vanished completely.

He spots them after a minute, the guy and his dog. _An unusual time to go for a walk,_  he thinks and watches them go slowly down the street. The guy wears the same hat he wore when Bucky had his little puking incident on Wednesday, the dog has a red blinking collar. The guy seems tired, yawns a few times as he passes through Bucky’s window. _Maybe he can’t sleep either._ Judging by his sweatpants and the coat thrown over a hooded sweater, this isn’t a planned walk. But what should Bucky know about walking dogs? He doesn’t own one. And the childhood dog he had mentioned in his call with the woman from the shelter was a lie. They didn’t have a dog, his father was allergic to them. Probably still is.

Bucky still wonders what the dog’s name is.

His ramen alert him that they are ready as the pot with water boils over, and when he gets back to his window with a bowl of spicy Asian noodles the guy and his dog are gone. So it’s the sofa and the Africa documentary again. Four hours and two documentaries later, he finally falls asleep.

~~~

The doorbell rings.

It’s the first time in weeks that anybody wants something from him. Still half asleep he thinks it may be Sam, since he had threatened to come over, so he gets up from the sofa and opens the door, one hand rubbing the sand from his eyes.

It’s not Sam.

It’s his sister, Becca.

She looks good, she’s cut her waist long hair to her chin and dyed it another shade of brown with a red undertone, something like chestnut, maybe. She also starts tearing up, and Bucky can only blink once, and she’s already throwing her arms around him, sobbing about how good it is too see him, how much she’s missed him and that _god,_ he looks awful.

He feels even more awful than he looks, because he hasn’t seen Becca, or any member from his family, since the beginning of October. He had been rotting in his old childhood room for maybe three-four months (he can’t remember how long exactly), with his mom coming in every half an hour to check on him, bringing him food or water, while he laid in bed. In the first week of October his dad had somehow provoked him (Bucky hadn’t known that that was still possible, with him feeling more dead than alive), saying that he shouldn’t make that much of a fuss, in his time everybody that had joined the army was proud to have served their country, to defend freedom, and some more patriotic bullshit. Bucky had flipped out, lost his head completely. It had ended in two broken fingers and a trashed living room table and lamp. That’s when his mom had urged him to get help, which is how he ended up with Mrs. Milton.

“Usually,” Mrs. Milton had told him calmly, “I would say that a long stay ward would be best for this complex kind of PTSD, temporarily. But in your case, I think that loss of control would fuel it even more. Have you thought about moving out?”

Which is also how he ended up in his apartment about two weeks later, and two weekly appointments with Mrs. Milton. After his move, he blocked all of his family on his phone, and whenever Becca came around knocking on his door, he pretended to not be home.

But now she’s here in his arms, smelling like home, clean laundry and that really nice perfume that he has given her for her birthday a few years back. Bucky doesn’t know why he hasn’t let her in, hasn’t let himself talk to her. Out of all his family, Becca would’ve probably understood him best. She hasn’t been to war of course, she’s way too fragile for that, but she’d been in an abusive relationship in her early twenties, and had left it traumatized and broken.

“Bucky, you look awful,” she says once again, pulls away and smiles. “But it’s so good to see you.”

He can’t answer her, somehow his brain can’t seem to form any coherent sentence, so he just opens the door a little wider and steps away.

“No, no, you hermit, let’s go out. Let’s have lunch. I’ll pay.”

“I…” It already turns his stomach just thinking about going to a crowded place, with lots of people talking, music playing, so many sounds and movements, somewhere he has to actually _talk._

“C’mon, get dressed, I’ll wait by the car. I know a really good place.”

But he also can’t let her down, can he? She seems so excited, so happy to see him, to talk to him. He can’t let her down now. His conscience would nag him for days if he’d decline now, only to crawl back onto the sofa and sleep for the next 14 hours.

“Yeah, okay, just wait a second,” he manages to get out, closes the door and then goes to his bedroom. He fishes a somewhat clean jeans from the ground, takes a shirt from the pile of clothes that's been lying on the left side of the bed for at least three weeks, and then goes on a search for clean underwear. It takes him only a minute to get dressed, old Bucky would’ve required half a century to even find an outfit and another decade for doing his hair. _Sometimes_ , Bucky thinks, _it’s of advantage to not care about anything. In case of spontaneous visits from little sisters._

When he gets into Becca’s car, she hands him a hair tie with the words “please put your hair into a bun, then you can pull off the whole hipster look”, and then she’s already talking. About how she has this new job at a diving school, how their mom thinks about selling the house and moving to an apartment, how their other sister Winnie is about to finish school in March, and that Winnie wants to study medicine. Becca also has a new boyfriend of which she is convinced that he is “the one” and that he will propose to her soon, how they got a rescue cat named Hans, and that Bucky should come over for dinner sometime. Bucky can only think that Hans is a stupid name for a cat and that Winnie should really stick with her interest in mechanical science.

When they arrive at the diner, Bucky is tired and a little sick to the stomach, and he hasn’t even been with real people yet. His sister doesn’t count. They get inside and Bucky dissociates, for the whole time they are there. When he get’s back to his apartment, he can’t remember what he had to eat, when Becca left, if she even came back to his apartment, or if she just dropped him off. The sudden realisation of being in his home without having checked if there is someone with him, throws him right into another panic attack, which he just waits out by the toilet.

_Ah,_ he thinks as he has to throw up, _it was pasta. Good to know._

Sam lets himself in with the spare key under the doormat when Bucky doesn’t open up, calling out for him. He finds him in the bathroom half a minute later, gets him a wet towel and puts it in Bucky’s neck, talking reassuringly, patting his back.

When all of the lunch has left his stomach, Bucky is able to lean back into Sam and calm his breathing.

“So, what triggered that, huh?” Sam asks after a while of them just sitting there.

“Becca visited,” he answers weakly, his throat burning, “and we went for Lunch.”

“You know that you can just say ‘no’, if you don’t feel comfortable with something, right?”

Bucky just shrugs. “She would’ve been disappointed.” Then he looks out through the door into his bedroom. “Hey, can you… just quickly check the place?”

Sam nods, goes through the apartment and comes back with a glass of water. “Here. You should really drink something.”

They sit in silence for ten minutes and Bucky thinks that it’s good to know that he and Sam don’t have to talk. Sometimes company is just enough.

~~~

He sees the guy and his dog four more times, before he has his weekly appointment with Mrs. Milton, and every time he sees them, the urge to know the dog’s name gets bigger and bigger.

By Tuesday, when he sees them as he goes to his therapist’s office, he’s about to just run over and ask the guy, which he doesn’t do, obviously. But he _almost_ does.

Bucky tells Mrs. Milton about his little “freak out” on Wednesday last week, and how the guy with the dog had helped him and called Sam.

“Now I really want to know the dog’s name,” Bucky concludes the whole story.

“You could ask,” Mrs. Milton proposes and smiles. “What’s hindering you?”

Firstly, his anxiety, secondly his depression, and thirdly his occasional paranoia, but he answers with a simple “dunno”.

“You could ask, and when you’ve got your answer, just leave again,” his therapist goes on, “if he wants to talk, you can just leave. That’s fine, you don’t have to explain yourself or anything. If you feel uncomfortable, just leave. If it’s that what’s scaring you.”

It probably is, Bucky thinks, that he has to talk to the guy, maybe even introduce himself or whatever people do when they interact with other human beings. “I could try,” he says after a short silence. “I can leave.”

“Sure,” Mrs. Milton smiles. “You can always leave. Whenever you feel uncomfortable or unsafe, you are allowed to leave.”

It’s good to hear that, somehow. Maybe because when he wanted to leave a place most, during his time serving, neither could he just leave, nor was he allowed to.

“The choices of what you do are solely up to yourself. There’s nobody who’s preventing you from doing what you want than yourself.” His therapist is still smiling, and Bucky almost has to smile to, because her smile really is infectious. “Or in other words: I believe that you can do anything you want.”

It’s _really_ good to hear that.

 ~~~

Sam comes over again on Sunday and makes Lunch for Bucky. Bucky is ashamed that he can’t do it himself, but he doesn’t know how to help himself either.

They go for a walk in the park, and out in the distance, Bucky can see the guy and his floppy eared dog again. He still wonders what the dog’s name is, but he doesn’t go over to ask. _It would be stupid._ He and Sam talk a bit about times in the war, mostly fun and good times, Sam tells him a story about one of his friends, Riley, and that time the two of them and a few others from their team went for a ride in a stolen helicopter to fly to a nearby lake. Bucky knows that Riley is dead now, he died in a mission just a few weeks before Sam got back home again and wonders how Sam can talk so lightly about him. In comparison to Bucky, Sam has got his life together, despite losing a few of his teammates, and his best friend.

No, Bucky isn’t bitter about his friend coping well with his PTSD, he’s _not_. He’s bitter about himself being a fucking loser, bitter about wasting his life away and being so affected by everything that happened. And maybe he’s a little bit bitter about his friend coping better than him. Maybe.

When they get back, Bucky is exhausted and falls asleep on the couch until Sam wakes him up with dinner. Bucky still doesn’t know how he has deserved Sam.

Nothing exciting happens over the next four weeks, Bucky raises his dog-walking from once to twice a week (Wednesdays and Thursdays), and actually starts to talk with his therapist about his time back at war. They mostly discuss non traumatic things (as far as war being non traumatic), because Mrs. Milton is all about “stabilization”. Sometimes (but less often now) Bucky spots the guy and his yellowish dog out of his window. Bucky still wonders what the dog’s name is. He doesn’t go out to ask though. _That would be stupid_. Sam comes over once every week (sometimes more often) and they do shopping together in the early morning. When they come back, Bucky usually passes out on the couch until Sam wakes him up at midday.

Then, in the second week of February, Natasha is in front of his door, just when he comes back from his dog walking (he and Milly have become good friends, she even listens to his commands now, but mostly, he lets her be, and she lets him be, and that’s how they get along well). Natasha’s hair is a little longer than last time Bucky saw her, that was on Halloween (when Natasha had invited him and Sam for a movie evening), but her expression is as furious as ever.

“James _Buchanan_ Barnes,” she goes hissing when she spots him, “I have been worried _sick_ about you, until Sam calls me a few days ago and tells me you two have been ‘hanging out’.” She makes the angriest quotation marks with her fingers that Bucky has ever seen. “Gladly he provided me with your new address so I could _finally_ visit you, after four months of total _radio silence._ ”

His stomach becomes a bundle of hot nerves and he instantly ducks his head as he pulls his keys from his pocket. She is _really_ angry.

“So. What is your fucking excuse this time?”

“I have none?” Bucky provides and lets her in the apartment.

She shrieks as she sees the piles of dirty dishes in the sink. “Do you _ever_ clean your place, James? This is _disgusting_ , even for your standards.”

“I know,” he mutters and puts his keys on the kitchen counter. “Did you come here to make me feel bad or is there any other reason?”

As she turns around her face is soft, and she smiles with a wetness in her eyes that makes Bucky somewhat scared, somewhat worried. Nat doesn’t cry.

“ _Bucky_ ,” she goes and hugs him. It feels weird, kinda. He hasn’t really been hugged in weeks (the last one he received must’ve been by Becca). Not that he wanted to be hugged either. “Bucky, of course I came here to _see_ _you_. You’re my best friend.”

Bucky sighs at that. Yeah, Nat is his best friend too. He doesn’t know why he didn’t tell her what his new address was. None of his actions seem to make any sense now.

“How are you doing?” she asks, as she lets him go, and starts taking off her shoes and her coat. She’s obviously planning to stay for a while. “Sam told me you’ve been walking dogs?”

“Just one dog,” Bucky corrects her and gets the knife out of the flower pot next to the door. He won’t answer the first question. There’s just no point in doing so, his apartment speaks for him.

“Clint also got himself _another_ dog. He’s been taking in strays all winter and it’s driving me mad.”

Bucky smiles at the thought of that, Clint and his rescue dogs, all named Lucky. _They are indeed lucky that they came across Clint,_ Bucky thinks, he is one of the nicest guys that Bucky knows and will take even eight dogs into his home simultaneously.

“What are you doing with that knife?” Natasha asks when she hangs her jacket on the empty coat rack.

“I have to check the rooms for a second,” Bucky mumbles as a response and walks through his apartment, but as always, finds no one. It still makes him feel better; he has no idea why though, if he’s honest. He should ask his therapist about it.

When he gets back to the kitchen, Natasha is loading up the dishwasher and filling the sink with water.

“You really don’t have to do that, Nat,” Bucky groans and tries to stop her from doing his dishes.

“Yes, I do, because you obviously won’t,” she snarls back at him, and he regrets saying something instantly. “Go. Do something else.” Her tone and facial expression leave no room for arguing, so he decides on sitting by the window.

It has somehow become a tradition of his; after he comes home from dog-walking or therapy or after he gets up in the morning, he makes himself a coffee and sits by the window. Sometimes he spots the guy and his yellowish dog, but he hasn’t seen them for at least a week and a half now. Today is no exception.

“You know, Clint and I go to this amazing coffee shop every Wednesday. You could come too, if you want.”

Bucky thinks about it for a moment. It’s too much out of his comfort zone, he decides.

“Or you could join us on Sundays. Clint makes pancakes.” She scoffs. “If you don’t mind the six dogs.”

“Dogs are okay,” Bucky says. It’s Clint he’s worried about. He and Clint hadn’t been friends for long when Bucky went to the army, and he hadn’t made any effort to see or talk to Clint when he came back home. Clint probably doesn’t even want to see him anymore.

“You don’t need to worry about Clint,” Nat says as if she can read his thoughts. She does it all the time and he has kinda weirdly missed it. “He’s not angry. Mostly just worried about _you_.” She softly adds, “Everyone is, Bucky.”

“There’s no need to worry about me,” Bucky answers and turns in his chair to look at Nat. “I’m in therapy, I have a roof over my head, I have food.”

“And a group of friends that you’ve pushed away for varying from three weeks to four months.” Then she has to laugh. “Also the roof over your head is in a state of… I can’t even describe _what_ this is. You’re a slob!”

“No,” Bucky answers with a smile and leans his head on the backrest of the armchair. “Just severely depressed.”

“That’s not funny,” Natasha warns him, but her red locks bounce softly as she laughs. “You really need to do something about your hair. Both the hair on your head and the hair in your face. You don’t look like you’ve got either food, or a roof over your head.”

Natasha cuts his hair in the evening in his bathroom. Not much, but it was down to his armpits and is now up to his chin again. She also gets rid of the beard that he had been growing for two months now and suddenly Bucky looks like a human being again. He almost doesn’t recognize himself in the selfie that Nat takes of them, pointing to his hair with an excited expression, and he even manages to smile. She sends it to Sam, who answers “who is this strangely good-looking man you’re with, should Clint know about him?” and it makes Bucky blush. No one has called him good looking in a long while now.

The next week on Tuesday, when Bucky goes to therapy, Mrs. Milton asks him about the dog walking and how it’s working out for him.

“I guess it’s alright,” Bucky answers and shrugs. “Nothing exciting ever happens, so that’s okay. I walk until Milly poops once and then we go back to the shelter.”

Bucky sees Mrs. Milton hide away a grin. If he wasn’t super depressed and super gay, he would probably think that it makes her pretty. “You’ve been there regularly the past five weeks, yes?”

“You mean, I didn’t miss any appointments?” Bucky asks, and when his therapist nods, he shrugs. “Yeah, I only got there late one time, but it wasn’t a problem.”

That makes her smile now, and somehow Bucky has to smile back. “That’s nice. When I had a look at my notes, I saw that you hadn’t missed any of our appointments in the last two months either. You have more routine in your week now and seeing that you can meet the routine, is a big step forward.”

Bucky realizes that she’s out for something, they usually don’t have these kinds of talks. It’s already making him anxious.

“I think that it’s time for more commitment.” She smiles wide at him. “I’ve been looking for a service dog for you.”

His heart misses a step. Hasn’t she listened to him when he denied it the first time?

“A what?” he asks, his voice shaking. “Can’t you remember when I told you that I don’t want a dog since I can’t even care for myself?”

“Well, you obviously can,” she says and gestures to his face. “You’ve cut your hair, you’re clean shaven, you’re wearing clothes that have been washed and ironed, and I can see that you’ve been eating better by your skin and when we weighed you earlier.”

“That’s… That was my friend, Natasha,” he mumbles weakly.

“And you have reestablished contact with your friends! Another big step. I am very proud of you, James,” she says, which makes his cheeks light up softly. He isn’t used to compliments. Not anymore, at least. Old Bucky got lots of compliments. For his smile, his hair, his style, his personality - basically for everything. New Bucky not so much. There isn’t much to compliment about anyway.

“Which is why I think a permanent commitment to a dog is good for you.”

“But what if-”

“Something _good_ happens to you?” his therapist interrupts. She never does that. “Yeah, _what if,_ James? You don’t believe that you deserve any good, you even think that what happened to you, that what happened to your squad, was your fault. That it only happened, because you made a mistake. You feel guilty for surviving, when none of them did. I understand. I understand that you feel that way, but let me tell you a secret, James.” She leans forward and softly says “It wasn’t your fault.”

 ~~~

Two weeks later he unlocks the door to his apartment, in his hand a leash connected to a two-year-old German Shepherd with a wagging tail. Her name is Lucy, and she is a specially trained PTSD-service dog.

For a second he can’t believe what he’s doing here. He, the mentally ill 26 year old man that hasn’t got a job and barely a roof over his head, the man that can’t sleep through the night so he does through the day, the man that sometimes doesn’t shower for days and can't properly communicate with other humans, has now got a _dog._

“Well,” he says to the dog and closes the door behind them, “I guess we’ll just… check the apartment for intruders together. Since you’re here the first time, that’s perfect for showing you around.” He pauses as he looks around. “It’s not a big place anyway.”

Then he has to laugh sarcastically. “I’m talking to a dog.”

 ~~~

Going out three times a day is hard at first, but Lucy comes up to him with her leash and the keys to the apartment whenever he starts brooding by the window and puts her face on his lap. Resisting her big, brown eyes is impossible, so every time he drags himself outside like a corpse from the grave in a bad horror movie.

He takes Lucy to his therapist appointment, Mrs. Milton comments on how the dog realizes even before Bucky when he’s getting upset and tells Bucky that she is happy about his decision. He also takes her to the shelter, and Lucy and Milly get along just perfectly. They play, both poop, and when Bucky goes back to the shelter, he finds himself smiling at the caretaker.

It happens just a few days later, when Bucky is going for a walk with Lucy; she’s wearing her vest saying “service dog, don’t pet”, he’s wearing one of old Bucky’s favorite jackets (the vintage navy blue one), Becca has brought it over a few days ago.

And then he spots the guy and his floppy-eared yellow-ish dog just across the street from his apartment at the edge of the park. He hasn’t seen them in at least three weeks. And _god,_ he _really_ wants to know the dog’s name.

Remembering the talk with his therapist from what must be a month back, he whispers to himself “you can do anything you want” twice, as if it’s a magical spell, and off he is, running over the street into the park (without looking if there’s a car coming, which is super reckless in hindsight, knowing that there's early morning traffic), Lucy at his heels. The guy and his dog are about 50 feet away, so he shouts “hey, wait!”, and the guy actually stops and turns around.

Now that Bucky isn’t totally spaced out or on the sixth floor of his apartment building looking out of his window, he can actually see that the guy has a really attractive face. Which makes the whole puking thing suddenly a hell of a lot embarrassing.

(Also, has Bucky just described him as “attractive”? When did that happen? He hasn’t thought of anyone in that way since… his first tour.)

“Can I help you?” the guy asks with a smile on his face, and because it has to get even more embarrassing, his smile is one of those “tell me anything and I will listen” smiles.

“What’s your dog’s name,” Bucky gets out when he stops in front of him, a little out of breath; Lucy next to him wagging her tail hard when she sees the other dog, but since she’s “on the job” (meaning she’s wearing her vest), she doesn’t go over to it. The other dog is excited too but doesn’t make any move forward either.

Bucky feels almost antsy, awaiting the answer to what this special dog is named.

The guy laughs softly, and then says “Sunshine”.

It takes Bucky about ten seconds until he understands that he isn’t talking about the weather, but that it’s his dog’s name, and it fills him with a sort of content that he hasn’t felt in a long time. But it leaves him with another burning question.

“Why?”

The guy laughs again and gives him another big smile, showing his teeth. It sounds awfully pretty, his laugh. “Um, well, mainly because he _is_ a walking ray of sunshine.” The dog goes hopping around his feet when he hears his name. “See?” Sunshine, the dog, still doesn’t make any attempt to go over to Lucy. He must be really well trained.

Somehow, the guy’s smile is even more infectious than his therapists (he has no idea that that was even possible), and he has to smile too. It’s just a small smile, lifting the edges of his mouth, but _hey, it’s a smile_. That doesn’t happen too often, these days.

“And further?” Bucky asks, because the guy said “mainly”, which implies that there are other reasons.

“You get the answer to that, if I also get to ask you a question.” The guy gives him an even bigger smile - you could even consider it a grin. It’s also been a long while since somebody grinned at him.

Bucky thinks that the guy’s offer seems reasonable. “Okay,” he agrees, “what’s the question?”

“What’s _your_ name?” the guy asks, still smiling.

“Bucky,” he answers and then pulls his face into a frown. Why would he want to know his name?

The guy has to grin. “Well, who gave you that name?”

Bucky has to roll his eyes and has to resist the urge to give him a finger, like he had when Clint had asked him that question the first time. “You answer my question first.”

“Yeah, of course, only fair,” the guy agrees, the grin still on his lips. The dog, Sunshine, grabs a twig from the side of the muddy path and puts it in front of the guy’s feet. He picks up the twig and throws it for the dog, which goes after it with a wagging tail. Lucy stays by his side, but watches Sunshine take off into the grass. “He’s not only actually a ray of sunshine, he also was a literal one in a time of darkness.” The guy gives him a crooked grin, one eye squinting. “Now my question. Why 'Bucky'?”

He has to shrug. “It’s way better than Buchanan.” That's not the story behind that name, but he doesn't need to know that.

“Is that your real name?” the guy says with a soft laugh, and Bucky realizes that he should also ask for his name, so he can stop calling him “the guy”. “Well, that’s just straight up torture for a kid.”

“It’s just my middle name,” Bucky answers.

“Then what’s your first name?”

“James. What’s yours?”

Sunshine, the dog, comes back with the twig and puts it in front of Bucky’s feet this time. Lucy now sniffs at Sunshine, but gets only mild interest back. Bucky sighs, picks the stick up, and throws it as far as he can.

“Steve,” the guy replies and offers him a hand with a smile. “Steven Grant, if we’re already at stupid middle names.”

Bucky takes his hand and shakes it.

And then freezes as he realizes what he’s doing.

He’s _talking_ to an actual person that isn’t his therapist. He’s actually having a conversation with a total stranger. He’s even shaking the other person’s hand. Speaking of, he pulls away his hand as if he’s been burned. _Well, holy shit._

Lucy starts licking the hand he’s holding her leash in. He has to throw her a quick glance and a soft smile, because she’s trying to calm him down and he appreciates that.

“Not as stupid as mine,” Bucky says to cover up… whatever just happened there.

(Steve by the way has incredibly soft skin, not like Bucky’s, that’s rough and even breaks at his knuckles from the weeks, if not months of malnourishment.)

“Debatable,” Steve answers with a laugh. “Do you and your dog want to join me and Sunshine for our walk?”

Bucky and Lucy have already been for half an hour, and normally he wouldn’t like being outside longer for than he has planned, but somehow today it’s okay. So he nods. “Sure, thanks.”

“No problem,” Steve answers and then whistles; his dog comes hopping out from between some bushes and they start going down the muddy path, Lucy separating him and Steve by walking between them. “So what’s _your_ dog’s name?”

“Lucy,” Bucky answers, and his dog looks up to him, her tail starting to wag.

“She’s a real cutie,” Steve compliments and smiles at Bucky. “How old is she?”

“Two years.”

“She’s from K9s for Wounded Warriors, right?” He laughs when he sees Bucky's face, and elaborates, “I recognized the logo on the vest. They really have amazingly trained dogs.”

“It still blows my mind that dogs can be so smart,” Bucky answers after thinking quickly about what he should say without sounding like he's totally insane, and then looks down at his loyal companion. “Whenever she just brings me the apartment keys I’m dazed beyond words.”

“Your first dog?” Steve asks with a smile.

Bucky nods. “I’ve had her for… a week and some days. She’s the best help that I’ve ever had.” It’s true. She _is_ the best help he ever had, his therapist aside. Mrs. Milton’s helpful too, but of course she can’t be with him 24/7. Lucy in contrast, will even be there when he sleeps, wake him up when he has nightmares, lick his face and turn the lights on, so Bucky isn’t scared. When that happened on Sunday, Bucky hat cried a little. Maybe even more than just a little.

“I bet!” Steve laughs, and Bucky notices a few lines in the corner of his eyes, he must be in his mid thirties, somewhat. He still stays attractive, though. Today he doesn’t have his hair hidden under a beanie, it’s sticking up, fixed with what’s probably wax, a lighter shade of blond than Bucky had imagined. He has a thing for blondes. “Do you live around here?”

“Just across the street,” Bucky affirms and tries not to further think about Steve’s sheer attractiveness or he might start getting flustered. Like he said. It's been a while. “Since October. You?”

“I live and work over at Midwood, but this is the only park that’s close to my place that Sunshine will play frisbee in. He's picky.”

“What do you work as?” Bucky asks, because a bit of his old nosy self sneaks itself back into his personality.

“High school teacher,” Steve answers and sighs dramatically, “public school is a mess, let me tell you that.”

He has to chuckle at that, and remembers his own high school years. His mom had it relatively easy with him, he wasn’t much of a troublemaker, his grades were okay, he was in boxing and science club and brought home more girls than black eyes, so Momma Barnes had nothing to complain about. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Public school can be messy.” He throws Steve a quick look. “What subjects do you teach?”

“Mainly arts and sports, and sometimes history as a substitute. I hate it.” He laughs and shrugs. “It pays just well enough. I’m thinking about teaching at an arts and design college though, where my effort in making class interesting will be appreciated for once maybe.”

“I went to an art college,” Bucky comments and sighs softly. "Probably the best time of my life." College seems so far away now, but it’s actually only been five years since he graduated. Five _long_ years.

Out of a sudden impulse, Bucky wishes he would’ve just stayed in arts, be a photographer like he had planned, or maybe even become an architect.

But no, he had to aim for a military career.

Maybe it was his father’s fault, with him pressuring to do his “patriotic duty” for the country, do something decent with his life and help other people. Only that he didn’t help, but kill them. At first, of course, he thought he was protecting someone, but juvenility passed away quickly, and twenty-four year old Bucky found himself in a war zone with the blood of innocent people on his boots.

Suddenly he’s back in the heat, sweat is running down from his forehead into his eyes, and he has a bad migraine from being out in direct sun for too long. The sand in his shoes is rubbing between his toes, and his uniform hasn’t been washed in two weeks. It’s too hot. It’s way too hot, and he has a bad sunburn on his nose and ears, skin is already flaking off when he runs his fingers over his face to wipe the sweat away.

Gunshots are ringing in his ears, screams echo over the field. The guy that he had joked with just five minutes ago is dying at his feet, blood pooling around his body, seeping into the light sand. His torso got ripped apart by a grenade, intestines glistening in the sun, and Bucky is more than lucky that it isn’t him, shredded apart in a desert town in the middle of nowhere.

The bad people on the other side, the ones that made mincemeat out of the young man that Bucky doesn’t even know the name of, are barely 18 years old. Some even younger.

His breath goes hectic and his chest hurts, but there is no time for breathing or thinking, this is a matter of shooting and hitting. He can hear the other soldiers dying around him like flies, breaths wet from blood, gurgling screams and soft _thumps_ when another body falls into the sand.

It’s them or him.

Before Bucky can shoot them all, he’s back in New York, spring is making flowers blossom and turn trees green again. The air is fresh and flows easily through his chest, he’s packed in a thick and warm coat, and his skin is stinging only from the morning coldness.

Lucy is nudging his thigh with her nose and giving his hand a few licks before nudging again. When he looks at her, it’s almost as if her eyes say _hey buddy,_ _it’s okay! I’m here for you!_ And he realizes, that it _is_ okay. He isn’t in there anymore, and he is free to go wherever and whenever he wants to go.

So he doesn’t panic, like he does most times when he gets a flashback, today he just smiles at his dog, gives her head a pat, and follows up behind Steve, who’s up a few steps, and turns to look at Bucky with a questioning look as he joins him again.

“Sorry,” he explains, “my shoelaces.”

And Steve nods and smiles and keeps on talking about something more or less trivial, that Bucky is happy to listen to.

Bucky learns that Steve would love to become an independent artist, that he likes painting with a mixture of gouache and watercolors, and that apparently half of his house is a gallery, and the other a studio for drawing. Steve doesn’t ask about Bucky, or what he does for a living, it’s as if he knows that Bucky would rather just listen right now. Maybe he does know.

Bucky also learns that Steve has a passion for things that make his adrenalin levels “jump out of the window” and that he owns a bike (a harley, wowza) and not a car, because he always feels cramped in them. Imagining the man with his triangular shaped torso in Becca's small beetle makes Bucky smile and think of this picture of a dorito stuck in a bottle.

When they have rounded the park and come back to where Bucky stopped Steve and Sunshine, Bucky thinks about how this conversation had started and what Steve has said about his dog being a literal source of sunshine in “a time of darkness”. What could this man of beaming light could possibly have endured that would make him describe it as darkness?

“When you told me why your dog is named Sunshine, you said something about darkness... What darkness?” he echoes his thoughts.

Steve makes a surprised face and then smiles softly, as if he remembers something that’s not so happy. “Ah, well. A topic for another day, maybe.”

“Another day?” Bucky repeats, because he isn’t sure know if he is implying something.

“Thursday, for example,” Steve offers and actually _smirks_ at Bucky. (It looks really good on him.) “Do you drink coffee?”

He realizes what this question is. He’s not asking Bucky for his drink preferences, he wants to know if Bucky would like to go for coffee with him.

_Huh._

He thinks of declining. That a situation like that could make him zone out again, like when he was having lunch with Becca, or that he could have a panic attack again. That he could feel uncomfortable. He thinks of saying no. But somehow though, he doesn’t feel uncomfortable with this stranger. So he says, “Sometimes. Depends on the location.”

Steve crosses his arms in front of his chest and his eyes shine at Bucky challengingly. “I’m listening.”

Bucky thinks that maybe Steve has named his dog Sunshine after himself, the way he’s smiling. “If you know a place that never gets any customers and never plays stupid music, then I’m all in.” Natasha would be proud of him. _Somewhat smooth, Barnes,_ the little voice on his shoulder compliments him.

Steve laughs, squeezing his eyes shut in the motion, and then answers, “I know _the_ best coffee shop without customers. If you’re okay with drinking coffee at noon.”

Bucky thinks about last week Friday, when he saw Steve and his dog going across the street at what must’ve been 2am. “Is that where you went last Friday?”

“Stalker alert,” Steve answers with another laugh.

“I saw you from my apartment when I couldn’t sleep,” Bucky explains hastily and feels blood rushing through his cheeks. _Not so smooth, Barnes,_ the little voice on his shoulder says.

Now Steve smiles sympathetically. “Yeah, I feel you. But, uh, yes. It’s open until late at night, which is really nice for nocturnal animals like me and Sunshine.”

“He can’t possibly be nocturnal with a name like that.”

“Yeah okay, maybe that was a lie,” Steve says and his smile gets bigger, showing a bit of his teeth. It’s a really, _really_ pretty smile. “So, what do you say? 8 pm on Thursday?”

“Sounds good,” Bucky agrees.

“Lemme give you my number,” Steve suggests and pulls out his phone from his jeans pocket, “so I can text you where the place is, and let you know in case I can’t make it. Or, you know, whenever me and Sunshine go for another walk and need company.”

As affirmation Bucky pulls out his own phone, opens the contacts, and then offers it to Steve, who puts in his number, and gives it back. Bucky in return calls him so Steve can also have his number.

Steve jokes that Sunshine would be happy to see Lucy again whenever she’s off her shift, which makes Bucky smile, and then they part ways. Bucky goes back to his apartment, let’s Lucy search the place and then puts himself on the sofa with a smile on his face. Out of an old habit he pulls out his phone and dials Nat’s number.

She answers after what’s probably just two seconds. “Bucky, are you okay? Do you need me to come over?”

“I’m fine, no worries,” he explains and feels a warmth in his chest by knowing that Nat is there whenever he needs to call her. “I just wanted to tell you something.”

“Dear god, I already thought something had happened.” She sounds relieved and lets out a harsh breath.

“No, it’s fine,” he reassures her again. Lucy hops onto the sofa when he gives her a nod and puts her head in his lap, encouraging him to pet her. “I am going out on Thursday.”

“You’re _what? G_ _oing_ _out?_  Who’s speaking?”

“Shut up, asshole,” he mutters with a smile. He missed this. “I know, I know. His name is Steve and his dog-”

“Wait, you’re going out with _someone?_  Who are you and what did you do with my severely depressed friend Bucky who won’t even leave the house to buy himself new cigarettes or coffee pads?”

“I _know,_ " he emphasizes with a soft laugh. “I’m a changed man, and all.”

“Is this dog actually doing you any good?”

“Obviously,” Bucky answers and gives Lucy a scratch behind the ears. “I mean I held a conversation with a stranger and then got invited for coffee, so, I guess…”

“You guess what? Wait-wait-wait, is this a _date_ thing?”

“Maybe? I have no idea, actually. I’m meeting him on Thursday.”

“If you don’t chicken out and actually go, which would, blatantly said, be close to a miracle-”

“Hey!”

“Then,” Natasha goes on, sounding disbelieving, “you will _have_ to introduce him to me, because if he can get _you_ to actually leave your house and interact with another human being, I’m sure he can stop world famine and war.”

“Thanks for believing in me,” Bucky comments dryly.

“Someone has to, right?” Natasha sasses him and he can hear the big, smug grin in her voice. “Honestly. He might be the perfect candidate for my assassination project.”

“I don’t think that ending world famine and war works with assassination, Nat.”

“If you only knew,” Nat answers in that voice that she used to do all the time before Bucky, well, broke beyond repair. It’s a voice that let’s you know that she isn’t up to anything good, and that there will probably be casualties.

“I don’t think I want to, when you’re using that scary voice,” Bucky laughs and smiles into himself. He would’ve never guessed that at some point this year he would be able to joke and laugh with his friend on the phone. But hey, here they are. Miracles do happen.

~~~

He enters his therapist’s office after a hectic knock and puts himself on the sofa without taking off his jacket, Lucy's leash still in his hands.

“Hi.” He's somewhat breathless, he almost ran the last five minutes of the way since he had the spontaneous idea to stop to buy cigarettes (kind of as a reward for the whole talking with a stranger thing), and that idea made him almost late.

“Good afternoon, James,” she says and gets up from her workplace to sit on the sofa on the opposite to him. “You seem excited.”

“I am,” Bucky answers and he can’t contain the grin that slips from his lips.

“Well, look at you,” she smiles back at him. “Go on. Why are you excited?”

“Something happened today,” he blurts out, “I talked to the guy and asked for his dog’s name.”

The smile on his therapist’s face gets even bigger and she nods, to encourage him to keep on talking.

“His name is Sunshine. The dog’s, of course. The guy is named Steve.”

“But that’s not everything, right?”

He shakes his head, still grinning, and starts rubbing Lucy behind the ears. “No. He asked me to go for coffee with him.”

“And what did you say?”

“After thinking about it, I said yes.” Smiling into himself, he looks out of the window. “I’m going out! Can you believe it?” His eyes flicker back at her, to see how she will react.

“Of course,” Mrs. Milton says and smiles, “good things do happen. How do you feel now?”

“If I wouldn’t know better, I might say happy.” He makes a grimace and then shrugs it off.

“And what makes you so sure that you do know better?”

“Because I-” He stops right there. _Because I don’t deserve to be happy._ _Not with what happened. Not with what I did._

She does that thing again, where she almost reads his mind. “Because you’re depressed? Because you’ve got PTSD and couldn’t leave the house for months? Because you don’t think that you get to be happy?” She smiles and shakes her head. “James. We all deserve happiness. Depression can be addicting at times, it can guilt trip you whenever you’re happy and make you feel bad for it. Know this: You deserve recovery, you deserve feeling better, and you also deserve happiness.”

~~~

He chants the sentence to himself in his mind over and over as he walks out of his apartment to where he and Steve will meet; Lucy is at his heels, checking that nothing will come up from behind and scare him. If someone walks too close behind Bucky, she will growl at the person, forcing them to keep their distance.

It’s a five minute walk from his place to the address that Steve sent him per text (he uses emojis with noses, like his therapist, which is actually kinda cute), and he’s put on a song that calms him down while he walks there, glad that the streets are a little more empty now, and that the rarity of people he meets generally make way for him when they see his dog.

_You deserve recovery, you deserve feeling better, you deserve happiness._

**_i’m almost there,_** he writes Nat, shaking fingers and all, **_and i’m freaking out a little_**

**_Stop torturing yourself,_ ** a text comes back immediately. **_What’s the worst that can happen? That you’ll puke again? He already saw it once and helped you, he’ll probably do so twice_ **

**_i might pee my pants_** , Bucky writes back, more as a joke, but now that he thinks of it, he actually feels like he needs to go to the toilet.

**_Shut up and go there already. He already got you out this far._ **

She is right. If he'll have to explain leaving before even arriving to his therapist next week, she’ll probably be disappointed. He should at least try.

_You deserve recovery, you deserve feeling better, you deserve happiness._

He takes a few deep breaths and stops to kneel down and pet Lucy a corner before his destination. “You’re with me, right? Bite me when I start talking bullshit.” She just starts licking his face, and he has to laugh, nervousness easing off him slowly. “I take that as affirmation, just so you know.”

Gripping her leash tightly in his right hand, he gets up again and goes the last few steps around the corner.

Steve is waiting outside the coffee shop (a neon sign saying _open until 3am_ in a blue and white hand lettering hangs in the window to the street), his dog Sunshine is sitting at his feet, softly wagging his tail. Steve is looking out for him, so Bucky weakly lifts his free arm and gives him and Sunshine a wave.

Steve’s face lights up as he spots him and a smile a mile long plasters itself on his face, and solely for that smile, it’s already been worth leaving the house.

He waves back, the man with his dog named Sunshine, and Bucky notices the vest on the dog's yellow-ish fur saying _service dog, don’t pet._

And just like that, he knows that it’s going to be fine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little note on service dogs, especially those trained by a trainer to then be sold to a different person:  
> i don't necessarily approve of that method, I think it puts unnecessary strain on the dog and is ineffective for the future handler. bonding between dog and handler for psychiatric service dogs is pretty much essential for the dog to perform its tasks and do its job properly. if the dog doesn't know the future handler, doesn't know how they react, what problems and symptoms they might have, and only gets trained general psychiatric tasks, and not individual-related tasks, isn't tuned into the handler's emotions etc, then I don't see how the dog is going to properly do its job. 
> 
> i chose this way of training for bucky's dog lucy for mainly two reasons: bucky is in no condition to raise a puppy and take care of extensive training, and for plot reasons an untrained puppy wouldn't have made as much sense, there had to be an obvious gap recovery wise between steve and bucky, and help for bucky needed to be immediate and instantly effective. however, looking back on this now, a year later, it could've possibly also been that bucky took over lucy from another handler because they couldn't care for her anymore. 
> 
> so, however you want to imagine it, either buying a fully trained dog from a trainer, or taking over from another disabled handler, both ways aren't (in my opinion) the most efficient ways for the service dog and handler team to work together, and that lucy works so exceptionally well with bucky (additionally with him having close to no knowledge about how the psychiatric tasks she performs for him work) is not very likely in real life.  
> just to get that info out there.


	3. equilibrium

 

“Really? Twelve? Where the hell do you keep them?”

“Like, under sofa cushions, under the mattress of my bed, one is in the fridge and another one in the cutlery cupboard, just to name a few.”

Steve has to laugh again, because, seriously, this guy is _ridiculous,_  and he can see much of his past self in the dark haired man sitting on the opposite of the table, but it’s been years since he had his last anxiety attack, now he’s on the sane outside and can look at the situation with humor. “Dear god,” he wheezes, “do you have any on you right now?”

“Maybe.” Bucky (he still isn’t quite over that name) gives him half of a smile and then has to chuckle. “Why - don’t _you_ have any on you? Even before the army, I had at least one with me at all times.”

To answer the brunette's question, Steve fumbles his keys from his jeans pocket and puts them on the table to show his small SAK keychain version. “Only this,” he flips it open and the (admittedly) tiny blade reflects the dim lights in the café, “but I mainly got it because of the bottle opener and the little screwdrivers.” It’s true, he needed something he could sporadically fix little parts on his bike with on the go, the bottle opener obviously explains itself.

“Man,” Bucky goes, the edges of his lips quirk slightly upwards, “you can’t call that a knife, that’s a toothpick.”

“Yeah, okay, then show me _your_ go-to knife, the one you always carry around.” Steve puts his keys back in his jeans pocket, but he has noticed how Bucky had eyed the little key chains briefly.

Bucky shakes his head and puts a hand up. “Sorry, can’t do that.”

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“I just can’t,” he simply says, his hand still up. Steve isn’t sure if it signalizes a _stop_ or if it’s just the other man being expressive.

“I bet it’s also a pocket knife. Does it have a weird-ass design? Like, uh… _Hello Kitty?_ ”

Now he emits a soft laugh (Steve is surprised every time one of these leaves the brown haired man’s mouth) and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “No, look, it’s a perfectly fine knife. I’d even say it’s kinda pretty.”

 _Yeah, I get you,_ he can’t help but think, he also had a few favorite knives until he got rid of all of them after his therapist suggested letting go of all things related to his time at the army (but he didn't have the heart to ditch the dog tags; those hold a special place).

“C’mon, you can’t bait me like that and then not show it,” he replies, his hand knocks against the cup of coffee he has sitting in front of him. He should really drink from it and maybe not watch every move, every facial expression of the man on the opposite to him. But well, if he doesn’t, it’s hard to get how Bucky’s feeling. His voice doesn’t show anything.

“It’s- okay, listen, it’s not exactly legal, okay? It’s- longer than you’re allowed to carry in public.”

He has to snort at that, uglily, because first thought goes somewhere else (yeah, he knows, _childish_ ), and then he has to give it another short laugh, because honestly? The guy is _ridiculous._

“Okay, so, you’re telling me, you have at least one knife on you that you usually carry, but aren’t even legally allowed to, and another dozen in your apartment? Like, _what_ the hell were you doing in the army?” It’s a joke, but the moment it leaves Steve’s mouth and Bucky’s face changes, he realizes, whatever Bucky has done, he has seen too much of _everything._

“Sniping, mainly,” he answers, his brows furrow a little, and Steve wonders if that’s the face he made when behind a scope, or if he’s unpleasantly remembered something now because of that question.

“So, what exactly are you doing with all those knives, then?” Trying to aim away from whatever bad memories he has just triggered in the fellow veteran on the opposite to him. Still, _he_ had asked about the darkness, right?

He gets rewarded with a soft chuckle, Bucky’s face relaxing and he closes his eyes into the hint of a smile. “I’d rather not tell. What were _you_ doing in the army?” When he opens his eyes again, they’ve become challenging, as if he wants to say _c’mon, surprise me._

“Bossing people around, mostly,” he replies in the same style and then shrugs. “I was a Captain.” No more details, because that’s too much. Bucky doesn’t need to know what else Steve did, what missions he commanded and where his part of this story played. He doesn’t need to know because it doesn’t matter anymore. Steve has finally moved on.

Bucky pulls a displeased face now and leans back in his chair. He looks effortlessly good, even though he’s lean and his clothes are too baggy for his body, his hair is semi-well cut, and the dark gray bags under his eyes talk for him about his biorhythm. Of course, he looks bad, yeah, like he’s sick and hasn’t left his bed in a few months, but beneath all that, when he relaxes a little, when his shoulders sack down and his head leans a little to the right until a few strands of his long, mocha brown hair fall into his face and he has to push them back behind his ear, Steve can catch a small glimpse of an insanely beautiful man. “You outrank me,” he says (but doesn’t tell his own rank) and scratches his chin where Steve spots a small cut. Probably from shaving.

At first, he hadn’t recognized the smooth face with the sharp cutting jawline with high sitting cheekbones, the dimpled chin that casts a small shadow on his skin - no, the last time he had seen him, the lower half of his face was hidden under a scruffy beard that didn’t leave room for imagining such a well chiseled profile under it. (He barely even recognized the voice, not anymore slurry and pain ridden, but clear and deep, and only realized that it was his vomiting-panic-attack-friend from the park when he said his own name.)

“I promise I won’t let it go to my head,” Steve answers a little too late, but Bucky doesn’t seem to notice, as he rolls his eyes with the edge of his lips curling upwards, not entirely enough for a smile, but almost.

Steve get’s the strong, sudden urge to turn it into a full smile, take all of the weight of his shoulders, listen to him talk about his problems and fears and give him a desperately needed hug. Steve knows that this feeling’s partly because of his helper's complex, it had kicked in instantly when he saw the man run down the street (almost got hit by a car while doing so), and into the park, no jacket and nothing, only to break down on a park bench. It hadn’t helped that he reminded him so much of his past self, so… Of course he had gone after him, he had to, right?

“After a spooked man that almost got killed by ongoing traffic and looks like he’s been living under a bridge?” Peggy had asked him with disbelief in her voice, “no, normal people don’t do that, Steven.”

He in return had laughed and rolled his eyes, even though she couldn’t see that since they were on the phone. “He looked like he might need help!” Steve had defended himself, “and in the end he did, so…”

“Normal people _still_ don’t go after crazed homeless people talking to themselves.”

Steve had answered that he was sure that the guy wasn’t homeless; he had a phone and his clothes only looked “I sleep on the sofa”-crumpled with a few food stains on them, not “I sleep on the floor on old newspapers”-dirty. Also, the talking to himself thing was something Steve knew just too well from himself - so if _he_ hadn’t gone after the “crazed homeless”, what would that say about himself?

Exactly. So he _had_ to go after him.

“So,” Bucky pulls him out of his thoughts, drawing the word out in a long exhale, “how… long have you had Sunshine?”

Sunshine, who might actually be the love of Steve’s life, looks up from his spot on the ground next to Steve’s chair and gives him that soft-eyed look, that Steve knows he will do again when the vest is off at home to earn a few of his favorite treats, because Steve is weak like that. (Giving his dogs treats when he’s begging goes against his training, but honestly, he can’t help himself. He loves his stupid dog so much.) “Seven years,” Steve replies fondly and leans down to give Sunshine a scratch behind the ear.

It’s been a long way on the road to recovery, a road with holes, cracks and lots of deep, muddy puddles that proved themselves to be even deeper when Steve stepped inside of them and he had endured so many storms unprotected, without anyone beside him, alone and isolated, until he finally met Sunshine, who lighted his way, pulled him along the path. Everything was a game to Sunshine, he put his nose into anything that seemed interesting enough for a puppy, hoping to find some sort of secret behind every door. Sunshine stayed by his side through friends and not-friends and always encouraged him to see the world with his eyes. Was there sunny weather, Sunshine would prance around in fields of grass, chase after butterflies and squirrels, was there rain, the little labrador-retriever mix would play in the puddles that Steve had been stumbling through alone, bring back tennis balls and frisbees with soaking wet fur, and soon enough Steve didn’t mind going through any weather with him. Sunshine was at his side, no matter what, protecting him from the world when Steve wasn’t strong enough to protect himself.

The road isn’t that harsh on him anymore and the days where Steve is smiling drastically outweigh the ones where he’s not. Most times, Sunshine doesn’t have to do his job anymore, and he only wears his vest whenever Steve has to go grocery shopping or might be in a public place for longer than five minutes that doesn’t allow dogs inside.

He wouldn’t have had to put the vest on Sunshine for this café, Sharon’s the owner and all dogs are welcome in here per se, but he had wanted to… show Bucky that he wasn’t alone. Show him that he wasn’t the only one, even though he might feel like that. Pulled out his dog tags from under his shirt when Bucky had asked “so, you too?” and gave him a smile with that, because it’s the silent answer _it does get better_ to Bucky’s silent question _how can you smile so easily?_

“Seven years,” Bucky now softly echoes and lets out a harsh breath. “That’s long.”

He’ll say it out loud this time. “It get’s easier.” For a second he’s not sure if that’s what Bucky would like to hear from him, he’s probably heard it more than enough, but then the long-haired man nods with a thoughtful face.

“Yeah, it already is.”

“How long has it been for you?”

He shrugs and takes a sip of his tea because he had emptied his own coffee in what must’ve been three minutes. “A year? I don’t know, honestly. It’s March, right?” The question alone hurts to hear.

“Not yet,” Steve smiles. “In two weeks and a few days.”

“Everything’s been… more of a haze,” Bucky says quietly after a few moments of silence and stares out the window. “I can’t remember much of what I did before October.”

It’s probably when it all went downhill. It’s just a wild guess, but that had been the case for himself. He had slept more hours than he was awake after he came back, never left the house; it took him nearly a year to get help, and that year is especially “hazy”. There are close to no photos, no paintings, sketches or drawings with the timestamp ‘07, the only thing he can remember is the miserable apartment he had lived in. Memories get clearer in 2008, he remembers the point where it all came crashing down, he had called Peggy and couldn’t stop crying on the phone, she had talked him through the worst panic attack of his life and calmed him without even being there. She moved over from England, just for him, lived with him for the most of a horrible year, washed his clothes, cooked his meals, cleaned the flat, helped him shower, drove him to therapy.

“Yeah,” Steve finally agrees. “I can relate to that.”

That makes Bucky look away from whatever he was watching outside of the shop, a frown on his face. “Really?”

“2007 was especially bad,” he recalls, and then explains, “That’s when I came back.”

“How old are you?” Bucky asks bluntly, and Steve has to grin, but he can follow his train of thought. He wants to roughly estimate when Steve joined the army and how old he was when he came back.

“Thirty-five,” he answers, “what about you?”

“Twenty-six,” Bucky mumbles, “but twenty-seven soon.”

Steve can’t tell what Bucky’s thinking, and he would love to know, because his frown gets even harder and his eyes fly back to the window, suddenly far away. As if he had remembered something that forbids him to look Steve in the eye. Obviously, the simplest things can put him off, and it hurts again, right in Steve’s chest - because _what_ has he seen? What has he endured and lived through?

“Soon, as in next month? Is your birthday in March?”

“10th,” Bucky affirms, his voice trailing off, his body tensing up. His dog, Lucy, moves under the table, he can feel her body pushing against his own legs; it seems like she’s putting her head in the other man’s lap. After a sigh from the German Shepherd Bucky looks down to his legs, gives the dog a soft smile, mumbles something like “thanks, girl”, breathes in harshly and puts his eyes back to Steve. He forces himself, but Steve is glad that he tries. “When’s yours?”

“Don’t laugh,” Steve warns him and smiles again. He tries to make each one warm and welcoming because he gets the feeling that Bucky doesn’t see those often enough. “4th of July.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Bucky goes and leans back in his chair again, “not really.” He’s still tense, his but his body language is already more open than closed off, the sighing dog head on his lap might play into that, but Steve likes to think that it’s also because he feels somewhat safe of letting his guard down with another ex-soldier.

“Really,” he confirms, and a chuckle leaves his own lips. It’s weird, he knows that. His unit used to make fun of him for it.

“Is that why you have that weird round American flag as a keychain?”

Steve shakes his head with another laugh. “No - well, kinda. It’s a stupid inside joke with my friends.”

“Is it a frisbee?”

The snort that comes out of his chest is a little too loud, but since there’s nobody in the coffee shop but them (and Wade, the barista that has the night shift on Thursdays and Fridays) it isn’t that embarrassing. “Yeah, it’s Sunshine’s favorite frisbee in a lot smaller. My friend, Tony, made it for me. It started as this little joke because, well, my birthday and the dog, obviously, but then Sunshine picked that stupid frisbee as his favorite toy, and uh, now I get that design as gifts from everyone. Like, caps, shirts, stickers, a skateboard, fitted parts for my bike with it sprayed on like a logo, I even have a huge wall tattoo lying around in the attic somewhere. Tony gets creative.”

“That’s so stupid,” Bucky answers, and gives Steve a smile that reaches his eyes, making them shine a bright blue, and suddenly the room feels warmer. _It’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen._ “I like it.”

They stay for longer than Steve would’ve imagined, and over time Bucky eases up more and more, Steve still makes most of the conversation, but Bucky listens and asks questions like “who’s your favorite artist” (“a guy called Henrik Uldalen, here, check out his Instagram”) and “what do you paint” (“mostly abstract stuff, but sometimes realistically too” which gets him back a simple “why?” and then he goes on explaining for ten minutes when and why he switches between those two); he wants to know if Steve likes Chinese take out (“what a question, of course”) and what his shirt size is (“your shoulders are so wide and I’ve been wondering if you fit in normal clothing” to which Steve can’t help but blush), if he also thinks that Mulan is one of the best Disney movies ever made (yes, he does), and what kind of breed his dog is (“I’ve been calling it ‘the floppy-eared dog with yellow-ish fur’ in my head” which makes Steve laugh loudly). Whenever he answers, Bucky demands more info - his favorite question is “Why?” without anything else following. Steve explains, with as much detail as he can and Bucky nods approvingly or frowns and puts another “why” right behind Steve’s minute-long monologs.

He doesn’t get much out of Bucky, not in words anyway, most of it he has to read into silences, posture, facial expressions or the way he puts his hair behind his ears. Bucky seems to be a mile long color gradient of subtle signs, his smiles are always quiet and his voice mostly lacks any emotion, but when it does shift a little bit, Steve makes a mental note. A few times he drifts off, eyes blank and far away, probably on the other half of the world with boots on dry ground, and then he can feel Lucy move under the table, Bucky gives her a pat and goes on asking why’s and how’s.

At the end of the evening Steve has drunk at least four shots of espresso and two cappuccinos, (he hasn’t planned on sleeping tonight anyway, he has a painting to finish and an art class project to prepare) and Bucky has stuck to tea; he tries out a few different flavors and eats reluctantly from a piece of cake that Steve has urged him to try (does he have a problem with eating?), but doesn’t go beyond that first cup of straight black coffee. When Steve asks if he wants another one, Bucky shakes his head and mumbles something about “saving the taste”, and it makes Steve smile. He pays - of course he does, he invited him in the first place, but Bucky blushes in return (as if he hadn't expected it), just softly - a pale shade of pink on his cheeks that Steve tries to sample down in his head for painting later.

They walk home in the same direction, Bucky asks Steve where he bought that blinking collar for Sunshine from, and Steve answers but adds that he has another ill-fitting one at home; he had bought it a size too large, and if Bucky wants to, he could have it, after all, his German Shepherd is a great deal bigger than Sunshine.

He smiles at that, it makes a small dimple appear in his cheeks, then nods and says a quiet "thanks".

Steve can’t help but feel proud of himself. Every smile is an achievement.

They part when Bucky points vaguely to a few apartment buildings and says that he lives “over there”. Steve is already a few feet away when Bucky calls after him.

“Hey, Steve!”

It sounds heavenly, his own name out of Bucky’s mouth, and Steve knows that he’s damned when he turns. Bucky’s face is half covered by shadows, the other half glows in the streetlight, painting his skin in the most interesting colors - different shades of orange and red, a few blue and green-brown hues. He’ll most likely be recreating them until morning.

“Thanks. For the evening.” Bucky gives him a somewhat crooked smile and shrugs casually. He probably isn’t casual about this at all. “I haven’t had that much fun in a long while.”

“You’re welcome,” Steve says almost automatically, relieved because he wasn’t sure if Bucky really liked it, but there his coolness goes down the drain - he did. “Again, whenever you like.”

Bucky just nods to that once, then turns around, a quick pace, Lucy hopping after him, as if she wants to check that nobody is going to jump him from behind. Bucky doesn’t look back and Steve is glad that he doesn’t, because he would’ve seen his stare.

Two days later - Saturday night at 1am, he and Sunshine are headed to Sharon’s café because it’s another sleepless night (he can’t get rid of those but tries to make them as positive as possible, so he has his sketchbook with him)- he gets a text by Bucky, just saying “where are you going?”

He stops and looks behind him, but can’t spot any lit windows in the buildings down the deserted street. Shaking his head with a smile he texts back **_Stalker alert!!! :-)_ **

**_i saw you from my window_ ** , a text flies back immediately. Before Steve can answer, his phone vibrates a second time. **_i told u, i look outside and watch the city when i can’t sleep i haven’t been looking for u or anything_ **

Steve can’t stifle a laugh bubbling from his chest and he writes **_I remember. When I can’t sleep, I go and do caffeine shots, so I’m heading to Espresso Yourself, to answer your question from before._ **

When he doesn’t get an answer, his fingers go on to form another text. **_Is it interesting, your window watching?_ **

**_Rarely_ ** , the reply comes after another minute. Sunshine is waiting patiently by Steve’s side, he has leaned against the wall waiting for the penny to drop from Bucky’s side.

Steve gives up and just writes the proposition out. **_You could join me if you like. Only if you have nothing interesting to watch from your window, of course._**

He waits for the reply at least for five minutes and thinks that maybe Bucky has fallen asleep, or is put off by the idea, but just when Steve has started walking down the street again, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

**_yeah ok wait for me i m coming down_ **

 ___

They do it this way for over a course of three weeks, Steve walks past Bucky’s window, and Bucky texts him.

Mostly it’s “where are you going?” but sometimes it also is “I see you”, or “your shoelace is open” or “I like the color of that jacket” or “Sunshine looks good today, from Lucy” or just simply “can we join your walk”. Lastly only happened twice, because Bucky was running out of excuses to get invited to walk with Steve. He does invite him, always, and if Bucky isn’t sitting by the window by chance, he often receives a text by Steve. Mostly it will say “hey, we’re off to the café/the park, you wanna join?”, but sometimes it also says “so nothing interesting outside your window?” or “Sunshine misses Lucy terribly”.

Bucky never declines, never after that initial half heart-, half panic attack he had when Steve asked the first time, which had resulted in a very short emergency call to Nat, who shut him down after only twenty seconds of panicky babbling and simply said “go with him and let me sleep, asshole” and hung up. Bucky never declines, and always feels good with Steve, like he doesn’t have to hide, like he can be... _himself._

After those three weeks Bucky is pretty sure that he and Steve have rapidly transformed from strangers to friends; Steve tells him a lot of things when they’re at the coffee shop; stories from his job, sometimes he shows him the recent art he’s working on, on other occasions he reads Bucky the essays his students write and nearly pisses himself with laughter, because some of it is literal bullshit (“with a capital B, pal”), but sometimes he will read a student’s interpretation of a painting really seriously and ask for Bucky’s opinion and Bucky will look at the painting, ask Steve to read it again, and then conclude that even though he went to art college, all of this is bullshit (“with a capital B and a Trade Mark sign”) and he doesn’t know shit about interpreting paintings. Bucky in return to Steve tries to tell as much as he can without his mind screaming at him, without feeling that light headed, heart racing premonition of zoning out. It’s easier than it should be.

On Friday nights Steve generally can’t sleep. Bucky’s learned that very early. He has no idea why or what, but something has happened on a Friday that sneaks itself into Steve’s consciousness at sunset like a freaking ninja out of a stupid 90’s movie and starts chopping up his need to sleep with a very sharp katana. “I can’t fight it,” Steve explains with an exasperated sigh, “whatever I do, nothing helps. And I really don’t wanna throw a pill every Friday night.”

Bucky gets that. If he would do it that way, he’d be in rehab for substance abuse faster than he could say “substance abuse”. So, on Friday nights they stay in the coffee shop until it closes, then walk to the next 7-11 to buy some stuff, mostly it’s a few snacks that they will eat later in the park, and then move on to play with the dogs in the closest spot of green in the neighborhood.

Today Bucky thinks about what he’ll have for lunch later that day, but without Sam by his side, he can’t remember what he used to like to eat before. He overthinks again, and his eyes fly longingly to the ramen just a few aisles further. Old Bucky would hate him right now. He had _standards._

“Do you like pasta?” Steve suddenly asks right next to him and picks up a box with penne.

Bucky doesn’t flinch, he’s over that, but his body tenses, every muscle a live wire with high voltage, and if Steve would’ve been a threat, he’d probably be sitting in a pool of his own blood on the floor right now. “I used to,” Bucky answers, only half aware of his voice sounding dead, “but now I can’t think of a single dish of pasta that I would make.” It’s scary how his first reaction would be violent. He hates himself for it.

“I can make you some.”

“Mh?”

“I can make you some pasta. My cooking is actually not bad.”

“What like, right now?”

“Yeah, sure. If you’d like to. I make some pretty mean Spagbol.”

“Steve it’s-” he pulls out his phone from his pocket and glances at the numbers on the display, a scoff leaving his mouth, “it’s half past three in the night.”

“So what? Are you hungry? I’m kinda hungry.”

Bucky rolls his eyes because Steve is ridiculous and needs to get a grip on life. “You could literally eat a horse and still be hungry two hours later.”

“What have you eaten today?” Steve asks, ignoring his comment efficiently.

“I dunno, a sandwich, maybe. Does the tea count?”

“Not really.”

“Then it’s only the sandwich.”

Steve gives him a blinding smile and puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m making you pasta. Are you fine with bolognese? Carbonara? Do you have tomato sauce at home?”

 _No-no, wait a second, at home?_ Steve can’t come to his apartment. There’s dirty clothes on his couch and used dishes in the sink, but most of all, Bucky’s apartment doesn’t have any character and if Bucky wasn’t a depressed slob, it would look like there wasn’t anyone living in it at all. Except for the few plants that are mostly dead, there is no decoration, he has the bare minimum of furniture, a bed, a sofa, a tv, the armchair at the window, a kitchen table and two chairs and a empty wardrobe because Bucky never bothers to fold his clothes and leaves them in the laundry basket. He doesn’t want Steve to think that he’s boring, nothing but the chaos his mental illness leaves behind.

“You- you can’t-” he tries, his stomach already clenching with panic and pulls away his shoulder so Steve doesn’t touch it any longer. All of a sudden his body isn’t okay with that anymore. Touch seems like it could hurt his skin, claw right into his bones, breathing feels like choking on a pure tequila shot and his stomach is full of hot acid, burning him from inside out.

It always surprises him, how fast his anxiety comes swaying back into his mind after what’s essentially been a good day.

“Vegetables?” the blonde asks and still smiles. “Something like tomatoes, red pepper? Zucchini maybe?”

“It’s really messy,” he tries weakly. Steve will be disgusted.

Steve, the guy that can describe colors that Bucky has never in his life heard of, Steve who is able to talk half an hour without any input whatsoever from Bucky without making it boring or seem self-absorbent, and who can drink four shots of espresso and see no effect on himself, Steve who laughs at everything that’s just remotely funny and smiles even when there is literally nothing to smile about, will finally realize that Bucky is nothing but his pitiful mental illness, and that there is absolutely _nothing_ interesting about him. He is the personified version of bland white bread without any dips that you get offered at bad restaurants as appetizers. Only that he isn’t even an appetizer, he is a big, disappointing main dish, without taste or color, no spice, no sweetness - just plain, dry bread.

Just the thought of losing the walking around town, hanging out in the café at night, talking and the whole listening to stupid essays, debating about new Disney movies vs the old ones, trying out the different tea flavors and cakes _Espresso Yourself_ offers, buying snacks in the middle of the night to eat them in a park a few blocks ahead, the stupid texting and the meaningful conversations, makes Bucky’s stomach drop into the core of the earth. He doesn’t want to lose the stability that Steve gives him. The slow approach to being _human_ again.

But most of all, he doesn’t want to lose the sight of Steve’s insanely infecting smile.

“I literally couldn’t care less.” Steve’s infamous smile finally falls for once and he looks at Bucky seriously. “Look, Bucky, when I got home, I didn’t do anything for a _year_. For another year my friend lived with me and had to cook food because I wouldn’t have eaten otherwise, do laundry because I would’ve been wearing clothes that were months old, clean the apartment because I just couldn’t get the energy to do it, hell, sometimes she even had to help me shower because I couldn’t do it myself. I know what depression looks like.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “I know what it looks like, and I don’t care at all.”

A thoughtful silence.

“Listen, I just wanna know if you have vegetables at home.”

 ~~~

Twenty minutes later Bucky is doing dishes and Steve is at his stove that only gets used by Sam once a week (or Bucky to heat up leftover pizza because who the hell heats up pizza in the microwave? Right, not even traumatized veterans that don’t leave the house in weeks), his broad back to the counter, one hand stirring the tomato sauce, the other supporting his weight, and it smells so good that Bucky’s stomach starts growling loudly.

“Still not hungry, huh?” Steve mocks, and Bucky still can’t believe that he caved in, actually gave his guard a free day, broke a hole in his defensive walls, let the anxiety politely out the door and Steve climb into his castle of self-doubt and disappointment. Let Steve see the _literal_ chaos his apartment is. Not only the one in his mind.

“Shut up,” he mutters and tries to not glance at the handsomeness in his kitchen. (Sometimes it’s plainly obvious, but sometimes it hits him as hard as it does right now, because Steve is _really_ attractive. He could probably model for some stupid magazine and have girls and guys equally drool over him. _Maybe he does. Not entirely unlikely._ )

It’s on the verge of being too much, letting his guard down and then having him in his space like this; it’s like carefully balancing on the two back legs of a chair without grabbing the table, but the edge being still in arms reach. He could fall anytime, and Steve would be there to see all of it, witness the embarrassment.

It’s scary.

But also kind of exciting.

After a soft silence that is only filled with some bubbles popping from the tomato sauce, the boiling water for the pasta and a few wet splashes as Bucky cleans a plate, Steve raises his voice. “So, uh, what do you want for your birthday?”

“My birthday?” Bucky has no idea how Steve is thinking about his birthday now.

“Well, it’s on Thursday. That’s in five days.”

“Aw, man, _shit_ ” Bucky can’t help but groan and lets his head softly fall forwards against the cabinet that contains all of his clean plates and bowls. _Fuck. Already next week._

“You don’t seem so happy about it.”

“Not at all,” he admits and sighs.

Steve doesn’t push, Bucky is glad about it and thinks about not sharing his thoughts with Steve. He does anyway (it only takes him two minutes to convince himself, _new record_ ), “I’m- I didn’t- Look, my _family_.” He looks up from his dishes, to see that Steve has crossed his arms in front of his chest and listens with an interested face. “I didn’t leave them exactly with kisses and hugs.” A grim scoff leaves his chest. “More like trashed living room and blood on grandma’s carpet.” Talking about it alone makes his stomach drop again and his heart rate elevate. “I haven’t spoken to them since then. That was in October. - Except Becca. Well, if you’re picky, I haven’t really been _talking_ with Becca either. She comes around sometimes and I mostly try to not suffocate by my panic attacks afterwards. I’m-… you know, they might… want to talk to me.” It’s easy, being honest, once the walls have holes in them, like trying to keep water from flowing through your fingers.

“And Becca is…?”

“Oh- uh, she’s my sister. Younger sister. _Re_ _-_ becca, actually.”

“Is this a common problem in your family?”

“Huh? What?”

Steve has a grin on his face, and suddenly Bucky feels like he’s being made fun of.

“Giving the kids nicknames that all start with the same letter?”

 _He can’t be serious._ “Steve, I’m - I’m pouring my heart out here and you- hey, stop laughing! You have the audacity to-”

“I’m so sorry,” the blonde gets out between hiccup laughs, and if Bucky wasn’t simultaneously angry and mortified, he would probably admire his beauty right now and die a little inside.

“You’re not sorry at all! You asshole!”

“Sorry,” he wheezes, head in the back of his neck, a hand on his stomach, “really, go on, with- with your heartbreakingly tragic backstory-” and then he’s off laughing again.

“I don’t know what to say to you, you are the worst person ever.”

“Honestly, Bucky,” Steve tries to calm himself down with a few breaths that bubble into laughter again, but he keeps on talking, “what are you afraid of?”

“Being _laughed_ at, for instance!”

But he listens to Bucky explaining why he had that huge fight with his family without even interrupting once - after he has finally stopped laughing - but can’t help but somewhat giggle at Bucky’s pout when they’re sitting at his small table, legs and two big dogs that hope for food falling down cramped under it.

“So, in your opinion it’s your dad’s fault?” Steve asks, his mouth full, and Bucky is still a little pissed so he doesn’t say that the pasta tastes really good and that it’s probably the best thing he ate all year. _No offense, Sam._

“Yeah.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I get where you’re coming from, but - why does it even matter?”

It’s a relatively good question. Why does it matter to Bucky who is responsible for his mental state?

Maybe because it’s easier to pinpoint the blame onto someone like a marker on a map than acknowledging that sometimes there just is no one to blame, maybe because then he can shift blame and guilt to someone that isn’t him because he’s been taking it out on himself for all of them dying and himself surviving the whole time; maybe he just needed that feeling of his chest once in awhile.

Self-reflection at its best. His therapist would be proud.

“I think,” Steve goes on (Bucky can see a mixture of vegetables, chicken, and yellow pasta while he talks and usually it would probably make him cringe; if this was Becca, he’d already told her off, maybe even reached over the table to close her god damn mouth - but well, it’s _Steve,_  so he doesn’t mind), “that they don’t know how to handle it. The whole mental illness thing. It wasn’t really big back then, you know, at least not talk-wise."

Bucky wants to argue, but the food is too good, so he just stays quiet. Maybe he’s also curious as to what the older man has to say about his absurd problems.

“Especially with your dad being a vet, right? But it was easier in his time, shipping back home meant actually going by ship, it took weeks, that was enough time to slowly process the traumatic events and not get bombarded by reality.” He takes a sip of his water, then picks up a few noodles and lets them drop under the table. “How long was your flight back home? Fourteen hours? Fifteen maybe? One moment you’re in a war zone and the next you walk through duty-free and McDonald’s. He can’t even remotely relate to what you’re feeling - maybe because he doesn’t want to, it might bring his own trauma back. He feels bad for it, but he can’t help it either, still stuck on old facts that don’t have importance anymore, because it’s a new world and you’re not him. I think he’d like you to be, though. Because it hadn’t hurt him that much. He wants you to be in less pain. He just doesn’t know how to tell you that.”

If he looks at it that way, Bucky can’t really blame his dad for reacting the way he did. Of course, he had said some pretty mean things, but if Bucky hadn’t seen what he had seen, didn’t have to do what he had done, hadn’t been affected by it the way it did- _well, it’s all about perspective, isn’t it?_ Even if Bucky had video material of what exactly happened, his dad would probably still not understand. How could he? _He wasn’t there._

“As for your mom, I think she just can’t stand not being able to help. She wants to protect you, you’re still her son, her little boy, figuratively speaking, and she can’t let go of the idea of shielding you from the world’s horrors, but she doesn’t even know where to begin. You’ve already seen them all.” Steve pauses for a moment to shove another fork of pasta into his mouth. It’s ungracefully graceful in a weird way. “That’s why she checked constantly, you know? To be sure that you don’t vanish from her sight. She wants you as close as possible, you’ve been gone for so long, came back different. She doesn’t know how to ask what you need, because there is no visual wound to tend to and after all moms always know best.”

A dark brown dog snout appears on the table, big eyes trained on the blond man. Steve feeds Lucy a portion of pasta from his fork and puts another one into his mouth right after it without even flinching. Well, Bucky lets Lucy lick his face too, so, it’s not really that much of a difference.

“And your sister,” his mouth is still full, “your sister has no idea how to act around you. She expects you to hide it, because that’s what we’re supposed to do, right? She expects you to be her big brother, you’re the adult, the grown-up one, her role model. She can’t help but do what she would’ve done with you before you went to war, joke easily, take you out to eat lunch, talk about her boyfriend so you can make snarky comments about the way he dresses or what his interests are. She brings you your favorite jacket, although you don’t know your favorites anymore. She expects you to be you, but you have no idea who that is either. It’s not her fault, really. Neither is it yours. She wants you to be happy but doesn’t know what will make you. Of course she works with what she knows.”

Bucky isn’t angry anymore. Steve shouldn’t know these things, from what little Bucky has allowed himself to tell, to show, but he knows anyway. He knows anyway and says what Bucky already knew deep inside but wouldn’t acknowledge, because it’s easier to paint the world in black and white instead of asking for reasons behind actions.

But after all, Steve is an artist.

“The pasta is really good,” Bucky replies after a gut-wrenching silence, because he doesn’t know what else to say and his voice is cracking.

Steve just smiles.

 ~~~

He keeps on smiling - it’s a constant, a fact that Bucky knows for sure: Steve will smile.

Whatever he tells him, no matter how depressing, anxious or irrational, Steve will find a bright side and smile. Somehow, it encourages Bucky to do the same, maybe because the blonde has that really infecting smile, maybe because Bucky is done with swimming in a sea of self-loathing and pity. He deserves to smile. And he deserves to be happy.

Thursday rolls around in no time, and his thoughts about his own happiness go down the drain, because not only is he one year older, but also he knows that Becca will call, that she will make him talk to his mom, possibly his dad, that Sam will come around, maybe even Nat with Clint. He isn’t sure if he can stand that many people in his space. Getting out of bed seems harder than ever, even though Lucy needs to go for a walk, she’s already beside the bed with her leash and the apartment keys and throws him head tilting looks.

“I don’t know either,” he answers her with a groan and pulls the blanket over his head. “Last week’s been so good.”

A wet nose comes sniffing under the fabric into his little cave of warmth and morning depression and he has a wet tongue in his face in no time. He doesn’t even remotely feel like smiling, but with those sweet dog kisses, he can’t really help himself. “I hate you,” he grumbles and pulls Lucy at her collar so she will come onto the bed. He realizes that cuddling with the dog, pressing her against his body and feel her warmth as he pushes his nose deep into the fur really doesn’t do good for his “I don’t care about anything” reputation, but it’s too tempting - She’s so fluffy and soft. Lucy fights off the blanket from their heads and goes on licking Bucky’s face until it annoys him and he finally gets up. Breakfast gets skipped because he’s not in the mood for food right now, he just puts on whatever clothes he finds on the floor and then takes his dog out for a walk.

He gets surprised by Steve thirty minutes later (well, not really surprised, he announces himself via text), who hands him a plastic box with a cupcake in it, a big smile all over his face. And, there it goes - Bucky’s smiling too. That’s how easy it is.

“Happy Birthday,” Steve says simply, “I also have a candle and a lighter, if you wanna make a wish.”

“I-...” A laugh leaves his chest, _god Steve, you’re ridiculous,_  and he nods. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Steve lights the candle and Bucky wishes for a smooth day. No complications. No panic attacks, no dissociation, no depressive, irrational thoughts.

The cupcake is chocolate with blueberries inside them, and Bucky melts away on the park bench they sit on. It's incredibly good, and he doesn't know how he had willingly misses out on stuff like this for so many months.

“I still have another twenty or so at home.” Steve softly nudges his shoulder. “If you want any more.”

So he made them himself. Just for Bucky. That’s… Stunning, somehow. And then his stomach falls down a ledge again because Steve just invited him to his home and Bucky isn’t sure if he can do that. He tries to talk himself out of it for at least 10 seconds and then something Steve said just a few days before comes into his mind.

_What are you scared of?_

Actually, nothing rational, really. Of course, of panic attacks and showing Steve the actual psychological damage that has happened in his brain and whatnot - but he’s already seen it once, and he’s heard about it even more.

Also, whenever he’s with Steve, he feels more like himself than he has in years.

An automated pro’s and con’s list in his head shuts the brooding down and he decides that he could have fun, that he likes spending time with Steve, and that he deserves to feel good. He shouldn’t deny it from himself when the opportunity is there.

So then he just says, “yeah, I’d like that.”

~~~

Steve’s house is full of art stuff. It’s everywhere. Paintings, colors, sketches, brushes, pens, pencils, palettes, you name it, Steve probably has it somewhere. His house is one of a bunch of suburban homes on his street, it’s ridiculously showpiece-cute from the outside, has the matching neatly trimmed lawn with a few stray dog toys, the stereotypical white picket fence, with a stupid metal mailbox, but on the inside it’s creatively chaotic. Unpacked Amazon cardboard boxes pile in the hallway next to a shoe rack with at least a dozen different sneakers, some discarded magazines lay in the brown boxes, they’ll probably go in the trash soon (or maybe not? _No idea._ ), stairs lead up, paintings and pictures lining the way, put together to well-matching collages, and two doors are on the right of the hallway, a third under the staircase - probably to the garage.

One of the two doors leads visibly into the kitchen, where Bucky gets pulled into right away (he also gets two more cupcakes stuffed into his hands), and then has to listen to Steve rant about how they should bake cookies sometime, or maybe even cake (“what about pie? Do you like pie?” he does indeed). Steve’s kitchen is colorful and big; pots with different green herbs are placed around the open room on the countertops, spices in different little bottles with handwritten letterings share the space on the walls with at least a dozen different kinds of oils and bottles of vinegar, cooking books are placed at various, weird places - some lie at a weird angle in the space between a wall cupboard and the kitchen hood - the fridge is _humongous_ with double doors, a small little blackboard with a few shopping list items and some _reminder!_ ’s hangs on its side. The walls in the kitchen are painted a green-blue color (turquoise? Steve would probably choke on his cupcake if Bucky would say that out loud), countertops are black, cupboards and cabinets are white with a few red accents. Bucky wouldn’t have thought that this color combo would work out so well, but it does. But, Steve is an artist, after all. The kitchen table looks handmade, and when Steve pulls off his dark blue sweater because it’s really warm inside (also Steve might be an oven, he’s literally radiating warmth whenever Bucky stands too close to him) he thinks that Steve definitely has the arms to be a part-time lumberjack. (Maybe he is. Bucky could ask. He doesn’t, obviously.)

Paintings by Steve are everywhere, it’s self-evident that he’s proud of what he makes, and no doubt, he should be. Steve’s painting style is chunky, big blocks of colors that look messily or even randomly arranged when standing right in front of the painting, but from a few steps afar show great detail in light and shadow placement. They’re all different though, thanks to personal improvement and variation of technique, some pieces are painted with acrylics, some with oil, but the more recent ones are that mixture of watercolor and gouache, like Steve told him on their first evening (or, like Nat likes to call it: coffee date, which it definitely wasn’t). He walks around the living room while Steve makes smoothies for them and ends up in the conservatory that looks over the small back garden, where Lucy and Sunshine are playing with a half-demolished football. The room could be a greenhouse, if you overlook the easel standing in the left corner next to a dark brown color stained cupboard; flowers and plants are everywhere (Bucky spots a coconut- and a banana plant), all the other furniture drowns in green leaves, which isn’t bad, honestly - Bucky feels very calm and at home in the little rainforest. He quickly flips through a sketchbook (studies of flowers and trees) that lies forgotten on a wooden bench that’s more plant than inanimate object and then wanders over to the easel. It holds a square canvas with what’s probably soon going to be the closeup of a face. Divided in half, Bucky can see a variety of yellow and orange tones, mixed with a little purple and red next to dark blues, browns and a few greenish shades. Something about it seems… unsettlingly calm. The two extremes, light and dark, harmonize so perfectly, but still, the person’s face is tense, wary almost.

“So, you found my daytime studio,” Steve’s voice comes up behind him, and Bucky almost flinches, that much he was lost in his own thoughts.

“It’s really pretty,” Bucky mumbles as a response and takes the smoothie Steve offers him. “I like all these plants.”

“Yeah, me too. It’s really peaceful, right?”

Bucky nods softly. It really is peaceful, not a sound reaches them through the thick layers of green around the room and the sun shines right through all the glass and warms his skin.

“What’s this one named? Or doesn’t it have a name yet?” he asks after a sudden impulse of curiosity, nodding to the painting in front of him.

“Oh, uh, it does. ‘Black and White’.”

“But…” Bucky leans in closer as he furrows his brows and inspects the painting intensely. “There is no black or white. It’s only color.”

“I know.”

When he turns, Steve is smiling again, arms crossed in front of his chest, smoothie in the right hand, his phone in the left. “But, why is called ‘Black and White’ then?”

“Why do you think?” His face is challenging, as if he wants to say “ _well you know something about art, analyze it_ ”.

“Even though I went to an art college-” Bucky begins but Steve finishes his sentence with a roll of his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you don’t know anything about interpreting paintings. I don’t believe you.”

“I really don’t. I enjoyed college, but I was a wimp in any of the classes, I told you before.” He takes a sip from the smoothie and sighs. “This is really good.”

“A lot of different berries, a banana, yogurt and a little bit of chocolate ice cream.” Steve turns to sit on the color stained cupboard that holds art supplies and a few clay flower pots (Bucky had a peek while going around the room). “So, what if you were, as you claim, 'a wimp' - you went to an art college for a reason.”

“Steve, that’s-... you know it’s been almost 9 years since I applied for that college, I’m not the same person anymore.”

“Yeah, well, okay.” Steve shrugs nonchalantly and turns to look outside. “So, anything planned for today? A party? Any friends coming over?”

“Um… yeah, Sam and Nat wanted to drop by at 8 pm, I think, Nat might bring her fiancé, Clint-”

“The kindergarten teacher?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Uh… Becca might come too? I’m not sure. She hasn’t said anything.” His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he immediately feels sick. “Speaking of the devil,” he mutters as he sees the name on the display. “You mind?”

“No, of course not.”

So he picks up and feels even sicker when he hears Becca and her boyfriend overly enthusiastically sing “Happy Birthday” at the other end. Steve gives him a pat on the shoulder, but leaves it there, a heavy weight that keeps him grounded on the floor. It’s _just_ a birthday song. She’s just happy, she doesn’t want any harm.

“Thanks, Becca,” he gets out when she’s finished, his voice strained, he sounds almost like he is about to cry. He might, actually.

“Happy Birthday, big brother. How are you feeling? What’re you doing?”

“Um, I’m fine… Over at a friend’s place right now.” Said friend gives his shoulder a squeeze and Bucky remembers that he should probably keep on breathing.

“How’s uh, you know- uh, your dog. What’s his name again?”

“Lucy,” he mumbles. “She’s fine too.”

He hears clattering in the background, like someone emptying the dishwasher. “That’s nice - so, uh, Bucky, you know, I have, ah-... well, you know. Mom is here too.”

He knew it. _He_ _knew it._ He knew that she would make him talk to his mom, make him feel more guilty than he does anyway for not talking to his family, she’ll probably even have him _apologize_.

With the feeling of lava running down his throat, he thinks again about what Steve said just a few days ago. _What are you afraid of?_

Being judged? Or maybe feeling guilty? Listening to accusations and his mom’s crying? His dad’s yelling? The way his smallest sister says his name? Being reminded of what happened back there in his parents living room? Meeting total incomprehension and lack of sympathy?

Or is he maybe, just maybe, scared of the exact opposite?

Bucky puts down the phone and silences the microphone. He needs Steve’s advice.

“It’s-”

“I heard her.” Steve pulls his shoulder and sits him down right next to him on the cupboard. Their shoulders and thighs touch and the lava in his throat begins to cool down. The hand that was resting on his right shoulder now slides along his neck and stays on the other shoulder. “You can do it. You don’t need to be scared. It’s your _mom._ ”

“But what if-”

“-she wants to say ‘Happy Birthday’? It’s a special day for her too, remember that.” He gets pulled into Steve’s side, warmth emitting from his chest. “Deep inside of you, you want to talk to her too. You and I both know that.”

“But I _can’t_ talk to her,” he gets out and only realizes now that he’s crying. He fucking hates the fucking crying. He doesn't even know why the hell he even _is_ crying now.

“I’m pretty sure you can.” Steve’s fingers move from his shoulder down to his upper arm, giving it a firm rub. “Remember when last week we established that your family doesn’t have any bad intentions? They don’t know how to act around you and they won’t know in a hundred years if you don’t tell them- if you don’t _explain_ to them. How can they understand, Bucky? They can’t have a look into your brain. They haven’t got any similar life experience. So- I think you should try and explain to them. Communication-”

“- is key, yeah, I know,” he sniffs, takes a deep breath and lets his shoulders relax. How Steve does this - calm him down with just a few words and a soft pat on his back - he has no idea, but it works every time. “Okay. Okay, I can do it.”

He turns on the microphone again and puts his phone to his ear.

There’s that moment again, balancing a chair on its back legs, momentary equilibrium on edge. Wind tearing on his skin trying to tie him down. White noise whistling in his ears. The earth’s movement threatening to shake. Gravity pulling him closer to the ground.

But the balance holds.

“You still there, Bucky?”

“Yeah. I am. Pass me Mom, okay?”

Silence. “Sure- yeah, of course, wait a second! - _Mom!_ \- She’s coming. - Yeah, it’s James. - I’ll give her to you now.”

The ground sways. Steve squeezes his arm again.

The balance holds.

“James?”

“Hi, Momma.”

His mother says, “Oh, James, my boy, Happy Birthday,” and then she’s crying.

_The balance holds._

_~~~_

Afterwards, he ends up sobbing in Steve’s arms, which is, frankly speaking, fucking embarrassing, but Steve handles it as well as anything else. He smiles, and praises him for finally standing up against his fear of talking to his family, and then gives him another cupcake and some chocolate. Bucky stays in his arms a little longer than he would need to, because something about the hug is so deeply _nourishing_ for his soul, that he can’t help but close his eyes into the embrace and breathe in Steve’s scent. Steve smells like laundry detergent, a little bit of wet dog, paint brush cleaner, and a musky individual scent that he can't quite categorize. _Maybe it's perfume._

They sit outside in the sun for a while after that, because apparently “direct sunlight makes you feel really good after crying, I promise”, the dogs are lying under a small apple tree that Steve says he has planted himself when he moved here a few years ago.

“Do you need any help with your apartment?” Steve wants to know and empties his second smoothie.

“No- Steve, I can’t… also ask that of you.”

“You can ask anything of me, Bucky,” the blond ray of sunshine says and gives him a nudge with his shoulder. “I don’t mind. I’d be glad to.”

“Don’t you have to work today?”

Steve shrugs and leans back on the garden chair to look up at the cloudless sky. “Yeah, at 3 pm. But only until 5, so…”

Bucky is torn between instantly declining and accepting, he’d love to have Steve around, but he also doesn’t want Steve to clean his shithole apartment just because he can’t do it on his own. Not to mention that that would end up really embarrassing for him again (filthy laundry and dishes, dirt in places where there shouldn’t be any, Bucky could go on for minutes). “Nah, c’mon, you’ve done enough already.”

“Really,” Steve emphasizes, “I don’t mind.”

“You can come this evening, if you want to. I mean, because- uh, all of my friends are there and I feel like… You should be there too. You know, only, um… If you want to.” _Wow. So smooth. That definitely wasn’t awkward at all._

“I’ll come, if you let me help you with your apartment.”

“Now, that’s just mean.”

“Your choice,” Steve snickers and closes his eyes, sun shining on his face, making his skin glow and his smile even bigger.

“You know what, I take that back, the whole ‘you’re the nicest person on earth’ thing. You’re evil.”

“If you say so.”

“You’re _evil._ ”

 ~~~

The doorbell rings, and he can hear Sam say “c’mon, birthday boy, open up, I know you’re wallowing in solitude in there. I bring cake!”

Steve in the kitchen, sitting on the counter, eating chocolate chip ice cream from the container with a big spoon, lets out a little laugh, and Bucky can feel himself light up, because he’s almost 90% sure that Sam will tease him about his new friend, since he has so conveniently forgotten to tell Sam about him. (He didn’t forget at all, in fact. He didn’t want Sam to think that now that he’s got a new friend, Bucky wouldn’t need him anymore and he was scared that Sam would drop him like a hot potato. Although Bucky wouldn’t describe himself as a _hot_ potato. He’s more of a cold, overcooked, one-week-old potato.)

When opening the door, he regrets the apartment layout and positioning of the kitchen once again as Sam stands in front of him with an impressed-confused face, looking straight into the kitchen where the giant blond man sits. “Huh, you’re not alone.”

“Or wallowing in solitude,” Steve adds from behind them and Bucky can hear the grin in his voice. “Hi, Sam.”

Bucky gestures to the man in his kitchen, and explains, “uh, Sam, that’s Steve.” A yellow whirlwind of fur comes hopping out of the bedroom and smells the newcomer. “And that’s Sunshine.”

“Have you gotten _another_ dog? Was that one huge beast not enough?” Sam asks and comes inside, holding the cake high enough so the dog can’t reach it, effectively shielding it from Bucky’s view that way, and then puts it over into the kitchen to shake Steve’s hand. “Hi, Steve, nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure,” Steve answers and takes another spoonful of ice cream. “It’s my dog, by the way.”

“A weird name for a dog,” Sam comments and looks around the apartment. “Jesus, Bucky, what have you done to this place? Has it ever been this clean in here?”

“Probably not.” Bucky can feel a blush creep up his cheeks. “Thank Steve for that.”

“Honestly,” Sam goes on, wide-eyed, “thank you. My condolences though.”

“Don’t be mean, Sam,” Bucky complains, “it wasn’t that bad.”

“No, it wasn’t at all. We kinda had fun too, right, Buck?” Steve throws him a big smile, and Bucky can’t help but smile back.

“Yeah, kinda.”

They had _a lot_ of fun, actually, Steve had brought a wireless speaker with him from home and they blasted some of his favorite songs while making Bucky's apartment shine. Bucky had actually ended up in a laughing fit from Steve’s singing (he _really_ can’t sing, it sounds like a cat being murdered); he had collapsed on the floor and cry-laughed through the whole rest of the song, while Steve swept the floor around him. Thinking about it makes a grin creep up his face again. He hasn’t laughed that carelessly in at least two years.

Sam and Steve only take five minutes, and then they’re best friends. They talk easily, banter and joke around, and for a moment Bucky can feel painful jealousy flare up in his chest. Steve is _his_ friend. He knew him _first_.

Then the moment fades when Steve urges him to try from the cake that Sam brought with him, chocolate with cherries (“your fav, remember?” Bucky can't remember, and he doesn't have the heart to tell Sam that this morning chocolate and blueberries became his favorite) and a big blue 27 on top, and offers him the bite from his own piece on his fork.

Time slows down, and suddenly Bucky is hyper aware of everything around him. The way that his hooded sweater is suddenly too warm, how Steve has a little stain of yellow paint on his right wrist, how his biceps flexes under his tight shirt, how Sam watches them with that well too knowing look on his face, the way the living room light makes Steve’s hair shine in a very light blond, how Lucy is licking the spaces between his fingers on the hand that lies on his lap, how heavy the glass of champagne he had lies in his stomach, and how his other hand on the sofa backrest suddenly starts to shake.

Time slows down and Bucky’s tastes bitter chocolate and sweet cherries against the cold metal fork on his tongue.

“It’s good, right?” Steve asks with a smile as he pulls back the fork and then proceeds on eating with it. For a moment Bucky isn’t sure if that has really just happened.

So he just nods slowly and then tries to give Sam the best smile he can currently manage. “Really good. Thanks, Sam.” His mind is racing at least 120 miles per hour, and he can feel a hot blush creep up his cheeks. _Did that really just happen?!_

“Empty your mouth first before you speak to me again, what are you, five?” Sam is grinning back as if he knows something that nobody else in the room does.

“On a scale of one to ten, yeah. You know what, make it a three.”

“I beg to differ,” Steve mumbles next to him, but before Bucky or Sam can say anything, he has to get the door again.

This time it’s Nat and Clint, and even though Bucky’s stomach drops from the sixth floor into the basement of his building, he greets both of them with a hug. Clint looks tired, like he might fall asleep anytime, Nat in contrary looks like she only drinks from the fountain of youth. Or maybe murder virgins and drink their blood. Either way.

It’s weird seeing Clint, he has talked to him on the phone a few times when he was giving Nat status updates on him and Steve (which he refused to do first, until Nat one day very casually dropped “so, Arts and PE teacher? Seems kinda boring”, and Bucky freaked out that “holy shit Nat, you have to _stop_ the fucking _stalking_ ” and from then on he gladly gave her intel), but they still hadn’t met. Mainly because Bucky was scared of it, but also because Clint was busy either working, or getting his roughly ten stray dogs placed into loving families, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was busy being depressed himself, as he claimed.

When he let’s both of them inside, saying that Sam and Steve are already there, Clints eyes light up. “The infamous Steve?” he asks a little too loud and Bucky elbows him in the ribs. “I’m sorry, am I shouting? Think the batteries of my hearing aids are going dead again.”

“Shut up, Clinton,” Nat hisses and pushes him into the apartment, “you changed them just a few hours ago. Don’t be an asshole.”

Nat and Clint bring more champagne and a present that Bucky doesn’t want to open, so Nat puts it on the kitchen counter. They talk and watch a stupid sitcom, Sam at some point suggests that they turn off the sound and then lip-read what the characters say, Clint, being hearing-impaired and all, is the best at it, and his dubbing makes everyone double over with laughter.

Becca comes around at 10 pm, when they’ve emptied the second bottle of champagne, and she also brings a present, which Bucky doesn’t open either, even though she pushes and pushes, almost until Bucky is annoyed and anxious enough to just open it so that she’ll stop talking to him, but then Steve comes around to the kitchen and introduces himself, like a fucking lifesaver.

Bucky gives him a mouthed “thank you” as he gets Becca a piece of Sam’s incredible cake, and Steve and Becca talk about unimportant things like job and hobbies but Steve listens as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Hans, as in the prince from _Frozen?_  That’s amazing. Love the name,” Steve goes and Bucky can only guess that they’re talking about Becca’s cat. If Bucky is honest, he isn’t really any kind of pet person, Lucy as the exception, so he doesn’t get why Becca would get one, let alone a _cat._

“Actually, yeah, like the prince from _Frozen,_ ” Becca confirms with a laugh, “he was really devious when we first got him, doing things he knew that he shouldn’t do, but my boyfriend let him do because he pitied him, and well, the red fur, of course. Bucky told me you also have a dog?”

“Oh, yeah, Sunshine. He’s a lab-retriever, 7 years old. He’s probably in Bucky’s bedroom right now, sleeping.”

“Sunshine also is a service dog, so he goes where Steve goes,” Bucky explains to Becca, and she nods pensively.

“So you… you’re…”

 _Here comes the big D word,_  Bucky thinks and sighs internally.  

“Also a veteran,” Steve completes Becca’s question instead, and he smiles. “Yeah, I’ve been back for a few years now.”

When his sister looks back at him, the smile on her face is almost unrecognizable. As if she just got the best news of her life.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Bucky inquires immediately, “what’s up?”

“I just…” She puts her hand on his arm and softly says, “I love you, Bucky, I hope you know that.”

It proceeds to be a nice evening, Nat and Clint leave when Clint falls asleep on Bucky’s couch, Sam and Becca follow soon after, but Steve stays and helps Bucky with cleaning plates and keeping the living room as neat as it was before. Sunshine and Lucy are asleep on Bucky’s bed, and when Steve goes to check on them, he sits down on Bucky’s bed and starts petting both dogs.

“I know why your sleep is so bad,” Steve says slowly and looks to the doorway where Bucky is leaning against the wooden frame.

“Yeah? Why?”

“Your mattress. It’s too soft. I bet you didn’t sleep on memory foam in the desert.”

“Not really.”

“Get a new mattress.” Then he gives his dog a double pat on the back. “C’mon, Sunshine. Time to go home.”

At the door, Steve gives Bucky a gentle shoulder squeeze as a goodbye, and then leaves with the words “see you tomorrow night”. When Bucky has turned off all the lights, brushed his teeth, switched into more comfortable clothes and laid down next to Lucy on his bed, he gets a text from Steve.

**_So, was your birthday so bad after all?_ **

He turns on his side and nuzzles his head into his cushion with a smile, letting the day pass revu. **_nah, it was nice. thx for all the help, really_ **

Steve is an invaluable friend. Of course, all of his other friends probably would’ve done the same if he had asked them, but something about Steve’s mutual understanding makes it easier to accept his help. Similar life experience and all that. It could also be just his smile, though. Now that Bucky thinks about it, he isn’t sure anymore.

**_I’m glad I was able to. I had a lot of fun - your friends are great. Hey, about tomorrow/tonight. Do you want to come over to my place in the evening? We could try cooking something nice and maybe finally watch that new Disney movie everyone’s been talking about._ **

Bucky frowns. **_u mean zootopia? hasnt that only been out for like 2 weeks?_ ** He definitely won’t go into a movie theater, it’s dark in there, so many people he doesn’t know, sounds are always too loud, no open, direct escape routes. Perfect for panic attacks.

**_Don’t tell this anyone: I know a really great streaming website that uploads high-quality streams of movies pretty soon after they start in theaters._ **

His soft chuckles wake Lucy up, who crawls over from her spot to him and then proceeds to get under the blanket with the long-haired man. **_ur secret is safe with me_** , he types and pulls the dog closer to him. Maybe he is a pet person after all.

**_Guessed so, because of your whole knife situation, you know._ **

**_ur horrible_ **

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god, this took a hundred years to finish.
> 
> work has been kicking my ass, but i finally had the time to look over this chapter that i had almost finished since a month ago and complete it. also, this fic hit almost 700 views which like, i would've never expected? holy moly? 
> 
> also! one thing i really hate is switching tenses, and i really have no idea how it works since english isn't my native language (but my second and i've been learning it pretty much since age 4), so i just write however it sounds about right? so whenever one of you notices major mistakes, feel free to bash me about my wrong grammar lol
> 
> if you were wondering what the big D word is, it's not dick, lol, it's disabled.
> 
> the word counter for dog is now at 150! (i love dogs)
> 
> (do check out henrik uldalen's instagram, his art is hauntingly beautiful. his insta is @henrikaau )


	4. patience

 

Action movies are an absolute taboo. Anything related to death and guns and explosions, people or animals getting killed, tortured or gravely physically injured, Bucky can’t watch. He’s left with documentaries, kids movies, dramedies or rom coms. Not a great selection to begin with, so he has stopped watching films pretty soon after he moved into his apartment, and only sometimes switches on the tv to watch nature documentaries. It didn’t bother him for a long time, but when he’s started to feel better about a month or so ago, suddenly his spare time (when he wasn’t with Steve, walking the shelter dogs or going to his therapist appointments) was a lot more boring. He even considered getting another hobby at some point. Freaky, right?

“You want salty or sweet popcorn?”

Bucky can’t help but pull a face and laugh. “Duh, sweet, of course. Who even eats salty popcorn?”

“I do,” Steve says, exaggerated hurt in his voice, “don’t insult me.”

“Well, you also think that Tangled isn’t a good Disney movie, so you’re obviously not in your right mind,” Bucky retorts, picking up an argument from the week before.

“Says the veteran who’s on medical leave for his mental illness,” Steve sneers and ducks his head behind the kitchen counter when Bucky throws a squeaky toy shaped like a rhino after him.

“I have no words for you.”

“C’mon, you only like Rapunzel because you relate to her hair wise.”

“You know, I’m not really blonde. I think you’re projecting this from yourself onto me,” Bucky replies with a grin.  

“Definitely not,” Steve claims, “Still, she sat in that tower and had to wait for some prince to save her ass instead of taking the matter into her own hands?”

“Rapunzel never waited for anyone to save her, she just needed someone to give her directions. Also. Flynn Rider isn’t a prince.” When Steve inhales to answer something, Bucky puts up a hand and stops him there. “Don’t say anything. You’re horrible. Toss over the nachos.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“I hate you. Give me the nachos.”

A bag of nachos gets thrown over the kitchen counter into the general direction of the sofa Bucky is sitting on, and a soft “oops” follows right after the bag hits the glass coffee table and rips open, making the contents spill out on Steve’s carpet.

“I’m not cleaning that,” Bucky states instantly.

“Neither am I.”

Steve does clean it after all, but he also eats the nachos that fell out of the bag right from the ground, while they’re watching the movie on his big flat screen. Bucky would love to say that it puts him off, or makes him like Steve any less, but it’s probably the opposite. Steve laughs at all stupid jokes and excitedly points out features like “look at the water, it looks so good” and “wow, that fur texture is amazing” and “god, I love the clouds, they’re incredible” and Bucky has to smile every time Steve gushes over something new.

He gets tired in the last third of the movie (not the movie's fault, but rather his inconsistent sleep schedule) and before he can do anything against it, he’s out. In his dream, he and Steve are cleaning his apartment again, and Steve is using the vacuum to clean the dishes. Bucky doesn’t question it, but helps by washing the sofa with dish soap. Lucy and Sunshine both wear party hats and eat cake out of bowls at the table. His therapist comes over with a cake that says “you’re old” and gifts him a hand mirror. When Bucky looks inside, his skin is wrinkled, his cheeks have sunken in and his hair is snow-white. He looks a century old.

For no obvious reason at all, he awakes with a start. Morning light shines through the conservatory and living room windows and puts everything in fiery gold. Steve sits on the chair on the opposite to the sofa, a sketch pad in his hands, propped up against his knees. His legs are resting cramped on the seat, as if he forgot that he’s 6 feet tall and his thighs and calves are torpedos of muscle. He probably hasn’t slept the entire night.

“Mornin’,” he says softly and looks up with a smile, “did you have a bad dream?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Bucky mutters, his voice sleep-scratchy, his mouth feels sticky and his head buzzes as if he had a bad hangover. “There was… uh…” He rubs his eyes, stretches, and then nuzzles himself back into the cushions. “Hard to explain. What time is it?”

“Ten to eight. You wanna eat something and then we’ll go with the dogs? Or we could grab breakfast on our way. It’s supposed to get 70 degrees today.” Steve’s hand slowly moving over the paper, scratching noises from the pencil, a clock in the next room, and Sunshine’s soft snoring are the only sounds audible.

“I think the weather forgot that it’s only March,” he mumbles, “stupid global warming.”

“I totally agree, but is that a yes for getting something on the way?”

“Uh… yes. Sounds good.” Blinking slowly, he notices how his shirt sticks to his skin. He should really change clothes and brush his teeth. “Hey, Steve,” he says after a short moment of silence, “D'you maybe have a spare toothbrush and shirt for me?”

Steve doesn’t look up from his drawing, but makes a surprised face. “Oh, sure. You also wanna have a shower before we go?”

He nods and yawns. “That’d be great.”

Steve gets up, closes the sketchpad and puts it on the coffee table. Bucky feels nosiness dwelling up into his hands. What’s he drawing? “I’ll be back in a second while I get everything, you can stay put, if you want.”

Steve leaves the room and goes somewhere upstairs, probably to his bed- and bathroom, and Bucky dozes off against his will again. Steve wakes him with a soft shake of his shoulder, handing him folded clothes, a towel and a toothbrush made from wood. When Bucky asks, Steve explains, “A bamboo toothbrush. I try to produce as little plastic waste as I can. Shower is upstairs, the first door on the right. Feel free to use whatever products you find there. Oh, and, uh, the blow dryer is in the cupboard under the sink.”

The water in Steve’s shower instantly turns hot, and Bucky melts away under the stream. In his apartment, the heater randomly decides when to turn the water warm, so he’s used to regular cold showers. Steve’s shower also has a massage option which makes Bucky just enjoy warmth and pressure on his back for at least five minutes until he remembers that he isn’t responsible for paying the water bill, so he quickly washes his hair with a shampoo that’s advertised as “cruelty, sulfate and silicone free” on the bottle and smells like some kind of flower you would find in his mother’s garden. When he gets down the stairs with towel dried hair, Steve is waiting at the door for him, two apples in his hand, both dogs ready to leave. He’s changed his comfy clothes for a more tight fitting light gray long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans, and for a second Bucky has to concentrate really hard on not tripping over his own feet.

“Everything fit?” Steve asks and gives him a long look over his body. _I must look ridiculous. There’s no other possible reason why he’s looking at me that way. I look ridiculous and I’m making a fool out of myself again._

“More or less.” It’s hard playing down insecurities, especially when the person on the opposite to you is so terribly attractive.

“Well, looks good on you, so…” Steve gives him his million dollar smile and then puts both of the apples into Bucky’s empty hands to kneel down and put on his shoes. “There is a really nice bakery that also offers breakfast just a few blocks from here. Or, if you’d like to, we can walk over to Espresso Yourself. ”

Wait a second.

Did Steve just say that he looks good?

Was that more of a you-can-leave-the-house-like-this “you look good”, or…?

“Buck?”

“Yeah, sorry, I don’t mind.” he says quickly, “wherever you want.” He’s being ridiculous. Can’t even handle an innocent compliment.

“Then, let’s just walk a few blocks, I’m suuuper hungry.”

“What a surprise,” Bucky can’t help but mutter and then lets out an “ouch” when Steve punches his arm.

“Well, you haven’t been up all night, sleepyhead, your body was in calorie saving mode while you had your little nap.”

“Don’t be so resentful,” Bucky complains as he puts on his own shoes, “you could’ve just woken me up, I would’ve totally stayed up with you. Besides, what insanely high-calorie burning activities could you have possibly done all night that you’re so hungry again? Did you run a marathon?”

Steve doesn’t answer him, but already opens the door, the two leashes and apples in his one big hand, the door handle in the other. “Whew, you might need a jacket, Buck.”

Bucky shivers as a cold whiff touches his neck and arms, and he grabs the black leather jacket he had brought with him yesterday from the coat hook and puts it on. “Don’t ignore my question,” he says as he follows the blond giant outside. “Also, what was that about 70 degrees?”

“Oh, shut up,” Steve laughs and hands him Lucy’s leash and the fruit. “Eat your apple.”

“I thought both of those were for you,” Bucky can’t resist teasing, but still takes a big bite out of his red, shiny apple. “Really good, by the way.”

“Farmer’s market in Park Slope. We should go grocery shopping there together sometimes, you’d like it.”

“I always go shopping once a week in the early morning with Sam.” Bucky pulls a face. “You, know, less people.” It’s become a routine that Bucky feels almost non-uneasy doing anymore. Maybe that’s also thanks to Sam and his constant endurance with getting up two hours earlier than he would, picking Bucky up with his car and giving him words of encouragement every single time.

“Just an idea,” Steve reassures him. “You don’t need to do anything you don’t like or feel uncomfortable with.”

Bucky thinks about it for a moment while he chews on his apple. “I would like that, I think, but… I, you know, I don’t want to… freak out.”

“Freak out how?” Steve nods to a crosswalk a few steps ahead. “This way.”

Bucky follows him with his eyes out for any people along the way he could possibly bump into. “You know… Violently.” First impulses go towards violence just way too often. He’s talked with his therapist about it, to which she told him that all his instincts are in survival mode; he feels so vulnerable and unsafe, that any other person could be a potentially lethal danger. She also suggested to him to step away from situations where he feels at danger and anxious by separating himself from his anxiety with grounding his senses. It’s supposed to make him see things more realistically, but, thing is, it doesn’t always work, and Bucky can’t afford the luxury to rely on a method that isn’t a hundred percent effective when it comes to his aggressions. Especially since he doesn’t feel numb and frozen all the time anymore and all of those feelings are slowly starting to creep back in.

A short silence passes through them as the walk over the street, and Bucky instantly worries, thinking that he’s scared Steve off with that confession, but he picks up the conversation again when they’re back on the sidewalk. “But that only happened once, with your parents, right?”

“If you don’t count all the times I lost my mind over some minor inconvenience in my apartment.”

“Let’s look at this with reason. Just think about how many situations you experienced where you thought you might react violently, but didn’t.”

“Must be around a hundred or so.” It sounds scary, when he says it that way. So many times he thought he’d flip any moment and attack the next person that just looks at him a little too long… As if he hadn’t hurt and ended enough lives already.

Steve smiles at him bright like the sun and puts an arm around his shoulder. “Then you have a chance of at least 99 percent to react non-violently in those situations. Pretty good outlook, if you ask me.” Another short pause that allows Bucky to accommodate to the sudden proximity to Steve’s body. “Based on that information, you could consider giving the farmers market a try. Besides, you have me by your side. If you do freak out, I’ll just hold you tight until you’re calm again. How’s that sound to you?”

Bucky’s stomach makes a drop down to the floor just at the thought of that. “I’ll think about it,” he manages to get out before his face flushes hot and he has to avert his eyes to his feet.

_Not smooth, Barnes._

 

The bakery has tables outside, laid with dark red tablecloths and transparent ashtrays. They decide on sitting there, it’s probably still a little too cold for all the other people, because they’re the only ones out in the sun. Granted, Steve is an oven so he might not even feel remotely cold, and Bucky has his thick leather jacket that’s lining is pretty insulating. He resists to smoke, even though he feels slightly nervous, and he knows having something to do with his hands would definitely help. He’s not sure what Steve’s opinion is on smoking. The dogs get two bowls of water from the woman that manages the register, and he and Steve take a coffee. Steve, as usual, takes something that’s so deliberately sweet that Bucky is tempted to spit it back in the cup when he lets him try a sip, his own is just straight black coffee, mostly because everything else will make his stomach sick, and the caffeine and bitterness will kickstart some sort of feeling alive. Remarkable for someone who just a month before thought of himself of being brought back from the dead. More of a numb ghost than a living being. Or a rotting zombie. Whatever you’d like to associate with him.

“Have you ever thought about doing like… sports?” Steve asks while they wait for their big breakfast to arrive.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Because it’s supposed to help against depressive episodes?”

“Amongst other things, yes. I know, neurotypical as hell.”

Bucky shrugs. “A few times. Especially when I get those horrible back pains after lying in bed for a whole day. Can’t bring myself to go anywhere, though.”

“You could do something from home,” his smiling blondie suggests. “There are lots of really good instructional videos on youtube.”

“Now you almost sound like my therapist.”

“Then there must be something to it,” Steve grins, “don’t you think?”

“Mh.” Mrs. Milton had proposed taking part in some sort of sports group a few times already, but he had never felt up to it. He’s embarrassing himself enough in front of people with just existing, he doesn’t need to put his lack of stamina or his body on display too.

Oh, and then there's the anxiety, obviously.

His therapist would probably ask him now if those are real reasons or if he is just trying to avoid possible triggering situations. “That would fuel your anxiety even more,” she’d probably say. Yeah, he knows. He knows that he should confront himself with those situations at some point, but he had never felt stable enough to do so. Until… well, Lucy and Steve happened. He’s been outside more in that month than the whole past year, he’s been doing actual shopping and talking to strangers (excluding Steve and including the caretaker at the shelter), he started eating more frequently, and well, maybe he still gets insanely depressed in the mornings and at night, nightmares still leave him dry heaving into the toilet sometimes, and on some days he still spaces out completely and can’t remember the last five hours, but, hey: progression.

“Can you recommend something?” he asks after a long while, that Steve passed with emptying his coffee and browsing on his phone.

He looks up with a glowing smile and then turns his smartphone so that Bucky can see. “Already thought you’d ask, so I searched for that amazing yoga instructor I found a while back.”

“Yoga?” Bucky can’t help but ask slightly deterred. “What makes you think I’m _flexible_ ? Have you _ever_ looked at me?”

Steve’s smile turns into a big grin, that shows all of his teeth, but he doesn’t answer the question and instead scrolls down a neatly, green-white color coordinated Instagram feed. “Her videos are really nice. They don’t have any background music, so you can put your own over it, or, uh, like... raining noise or whatever you prefer, and she has a lot of beginners stuff that’s mainly for relaxation and relieving tension of muscles. Nothing fancy.”

“Mh.”

“Sometimes she even takes a few minutes to meditate, which is super nice too.”

“ _Meditate_?” Now he’s pulling a face and Steve laughs in response.

“Is that too ‘white girl’-ish for you?”

Bucky crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Hell no. I’m all up for dispelling gender roles. I just highly doubt that it will help.”

“What’s the harm in trying it out?”

“Pulling a muscle? Making a fool out of myself in front of Lucy? Dying out of embarrassment and or exhaustion? Spontaneously combusting?”

Steve now laughs louder, and a few passersby turn around to look who’s having that much fun in broad daylight.

“That isn’t even funny.”

“Yes, it is,” Steve insists under a series of what Bucky categorizes as giggles, “especially with your expression,” and whatever he wanted to add to that gets drowned under more laughter.

Their breakfast arrives at that moment, and Steve has to stop giggling to get another table because not everything on the huge tray the poor cashier is holding fits on their two persons one. Bucky didn’t really concentrate on what Steve ordered when the cashier got around to their table - he was busy with staring into the distance and not try to get a stroke by the repulsively close proximity of her body to his chair. Now there’s so much food that Bucky feels instantly overwhelmed with what to eat first.

When Steve has finished loading up his plate while talking about how meditation techniques helped him whenever he felt anxious or irritated and sees that Bucky hasn’t touched anything of the food, he just casually pushes the plate over the table so that it sits right in front of Bucky, and takes the empty one from him.

Bucky doesn’t comment on it, not because he’s super okay with how domestic this seems (not at all like they’ve only known each other for a month), but more because he just has no clue as what to say to this gesture. So he just picks up the topic from before, a little helplessly stumbling over his own words, but Steve pretends as if it didn’t happen.

“It does help, though, I can fully confirm that,” Steve promises, “you should really give it a try.”

“What, the yoga?”

“No - like, exercise in general. Kicks your hormone production in the ass.” Then he smiles, “but, I guess, yoga too.”

“Still not convinced. You know, I think I’m doing enough by walking my dog three times a day, and I can barely even cope with that, so I-...”

“Excuses over excuses,” Steve interrupts him with laughs, “you’re worse than my students.”

“Leave a depressed man be, okay?”

“Would it help if I was there too?”

Bucky almost chokes on his toast getting stuck in his throat. While he dissolves in a coughing fit, Steve’s face pulls into a grin again. “I’ll just take that as a no.”

Lucy jumps up from her spot under the table and rests her front paws and head on his lap while licking his arm. “Are you serious?” Bucky finally gets out after drinking a glass of water and getting Lucy’s heavy and hairy head down from his lap. (These are still Steve’s clothes, he doesn’t want anything to get dirty.)

Smiling Blondie gives him a snort. “Of course, dumbass. Why, not a good idea?”

“No, it would be even worse, if I’m already embarrassed in front of myself, I’ll probably just die on the spot with anyone else there.”

“So, you don’t wanna see me in tight yoga shorts? I’m devastated.”

Bucky is sure that at this point his whole face has gone up in flames. Natasha would probably punch him right now. His stomach drops down to his feet, and he hates to admit it, but he’s imagining the situation into painful details. Like, shape-of-Steve’s-butt details. Which isn’t awkward at all.

When he doesn’t answer Steve starts laughing hysterically, his eyes squeeze shut and his head falls into the back of his neck, and he couldn’t be more handsome. “God, you should see your _face_!”

His dog has found her way back with her head into his lap and tries to calm his stumbling heart and trembling mind, but Bucky feels like someone zapped him with some kind of paralyzing gun because it seems like he’s momentarily unable to move any muscle in his body.

“I’m joking, Buck, I’m joking,” Steve wheezes between giggling and making sounds that come awfully close to a dying whale, while Bucky feels even more embarrassed for no obvious reason, until Steve looks him dead in the eye and calmly says “or am I?” that Bucky gets so self-consciously abashed that he wants to melt into all of his atoms and then vanish into the ground and turn into fossil oil.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” he manages to croak out after what must’ve been half a minute of Steve just laughing.

The whole debacle gets closed with an “oh, god, too much to explain, Bucky,” and then they go on eating, Bucky awkwardly trying to completely ignore what had just happened, while Steve is still grinning into himself even after he has paid (once again, that suave asshole) and they are going back to his place. Bucky wishes he could be shamelessly comfortable in his own skin just like Steve is, so bold that it makes other people blush, but alas - he hates himself too much to be able to carry himself with that much confidence. Tragic, in a way. Old Bucky would’ve laughed at new Bucky’s problems and self-esteem issues. But well, old Bucky also wouldn’t have killed numerous people in cold blood. So, there’s that.

 ___

Bucky wears black most times. It’s not that Steve doesn’t like it on him, hell no, if he could, he’d specifically only dress him in black leather and jeans - but it’s more that the younger man hides behind his black hooded sweaters and sweatpants and Steve thinks that he is way too handsome to do that. Which why he gives him light clothes to wear after his shower, and even though he can see that Bucky is visibly uncomfortable the moment they step outside, he can also see how that tension loosens off him as soon as the sun starts warming his back. (Steve knows that because he’s been cocky enough to put his arm around his shoulders on their way to the bakery.) The white shirt reflects light onto his skin, making the high points of his face shine like polished metal. The whole time they’re sitting and eating Steve can’t help but think “holy shit, he’s so beautiful”, because, _holy shit_ , he is. It’s not like he didn’t realize over the last few weeks or that Bucky doesn’t look good on any other day (even when he has greasy hair and oily skin and breakouts), no, it’s plainly obvious to anyone that even just glances at him; it’s just that today he looks especially good. His hair has air dried in soft waves, a few shorter strands fall into his face every other minute and he tries to blow them away until he gets annoyed of trying and finally just uses his hand to brush them behind his ears. He still has that little healthy blush from taking a hot shower on his cheeks and his skin glows with radiance. Today he’s especially beautiful and everyone just glancing at him can see that.

The thing is: Steve hasn’t been only glancing, he’s been staring (not that Bucky would notice, he’s way too busy with looking somewhere else), long enough to actually be able to draw a sketch of that well-defined face without reference. Peggy’s already calling it a crush and jokes with Sharon about it behind his back, and well, if Steve is completely honest with himself, they’re right. He has a tendency to get attached way too fast and Bucky didn’t exactly make it hard for him; the whole damsel in distress thing is like an invisible force, pulling Steve in (and it’s even harder to resist when it’s such a pretty damsel). Even though he felt like giving up his personal goal of making Bucky genuinely smile (how do you make someone smile that doesn’t want to be happy? How do you get to know someone that doesn’t know who they are themselves?) at least five times whenever they met, he stayed stubborn, waiting for his efforts to pay off and see him smile carelessly. Steve almost gave himself an award when he got that amazingly loud and hysterical laugh out of him on his birthday.

Now Bucky is asking him questions about the ending of the movie they watched yesterday evening while Steve once again can’t help but just stare at his face. Even though he’s been doing it for a good half of the time Bucky was asleep on his couch (he just had to use that opportunity of having a still model, okay?), it is still hard to not look. Maybe because it’s still vital for knowing how he is feeling and reacting to whatever they’re talking about since Bucky still has trouble with displaying his emotions in his voice and face, or maybe Steve just needs excuses to stare.

At some point, Steve is explaining stuff from the ending of the movie, Bucky just suddenly stops and kneels down with his back facing him.

Steve halts too, wondering what the hell the long haired man is doing but doesn’t say anything until Bucky doesn’t answer to his question. “Hey, Buck?”

When he turns around, he has a big smile plastered on his face. “Look at this flower, Steve. It’s so pretty.”

Steve furrows his brows and is confused for a second until Bucky pulls him down by his wrist and points to a single, very delicate blossom with a peach to pink to mauve color melt growing next to the sidewalk. “Oh- uh, yeah, it is,” he replies softly.

“That is an African Daisy. This specific color is called ‘Purple Sunset’. It really does look like a sunset, right?” Steve’s attention turns from the flower to Bucky’s fond expression as he stretches out his hand to touch the petals.

This is probably the most vulnerable state he’s ever seen him in. Not even in his sleep is he this relaxed. Thesmile he has right now, it's completely true - not hidden behind anything, as if he forgot all his hurting for a moment. This is Bucky, not overshadowed by insomnia and depression and anxiety, this is just pure  _him_.

Learning new things about Bucky is always an adventure, seeing new sides of him that he hadn’t expected, but this is special. “Do you like flowers?”

Bucky shrugs nonchalantly, but his smile tells Steve otherwise. “My mom is a florist, or was, at least. She still has a huge amount of flowers in her garden. I guess I just know a bit about them due to her.”

“Of course.”

“Sounds like you’re not convinced.”

“Totally am, flower-boy.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and then attends back to the flower. “I haven’t seen something so pretty in a while,” he mumbles and touches the sunset petals again. Steve resists asking if Bucky has looked in the mirror recently and just watches him carefully run his fingertips over the flower and then down its stem. “I feel like picking it, that’s how horrible I am,” he says with a little laugh, “I want to take it back to my apartment and put it in a glass, but then again, it would look sad on its own. Maybe I should just let it stay here. Maybe it will grow some friends.”

_Could he get any more adorable?_

Then he leans forward a little bit, and as his body weight shifts, he closes his eyes and then smells the flower. His eyebrows lift a little, his lips curl into a content smile, his shoulders relax, and he looks like he’s remembering something especially happy.

Steve’s holding his breath.

This is the exact moment that he knows that this is the point of no return. He has a huge crush on the twenty-seven-year-old with the long hair and love for flowers, and hell, there’s no denying it anymore. This is the exact moment Steve knows he’s pulled right in the current and he won’t be able to escape it.

“What’s so funny?” Bucky suddenly asks.

“Funny?”

“Yeah, you’re grinning like a stupid donkey.”

Steve has to laugh and puts his face in his hands. Holy shit. This is happening just way too fast. Get a grip on life, Steven. “Nothing,” he answers as he looks back at him and gets up, he’s done enough flirting for the day and doesn’t want Bucky to freak out. Steve doesn’t need to push the line any further and risk chasing him away (even though Bucky never complains or shows any sign that he doesn’t want Steve to flirt with him, he just mostly blushes, as if he still doesn’t expect it).

Bucky makes a sound that says “I don’t believe you, but okay” and then also gets up after a final head tilting look at the flower.

On their way back home, Bucky asks what Steve is up to today, Steve tells him how he wants to paint in the garden and cook something Indian for lunch and asks if Bucky wants to stay. After hesitation flashes across Bucky’s face and he takes ten seconds to evaluate the offer, he finally says “dunno, can I?” and Steve has to laugh and immediately answers “of course”. So Bucky stays. The whole Saturday, and then it starts to get late and when he doesn’t show the slightest inclination of wanting to leave, Steve asks if he also wants to stay the night. He offers him his own bed but warns him that the mattress is probably way too soft for him, so Bucky says he’d rather sleep on the couch. They watch another animated movie in the evening and Steve gets another mattress out of the garage and puts it on the floor in front of the sofa. Sofa cushions and some pillows from his bedroom get placed behind and next to them so they can comfortably sit on the mattress with their backs against the couch, eat cookie dough ice cream and laugh at stupid sitcoms as the night gets darker and darker.

At some point, Bucky just falls asleep mid-sentence and starts drooling on the cushion his head plummets on. And Steve can’t help it, his fingers itch and his head urges him to get his pencils and a sketchbook. He struggles against himself for a moment, because, if he isn’t careful, he’s gonna make it awkward and drive Bucky away. At the moment, Bucky is like a half-tame feral cat. He feeds him with little happy moments and in return, Bucky shows up whenever he feels like collecting his meal of satisfaction for the day. Sometimes he decides to come back the next day, sometimes he stays. Sometimes Steve has to call out for him and bait him with the prospect of happiness and coffee. He keeps all doors of possibilities open, Bucky is free to go and come whenever he wants to.  And just like with a real feral cat, if he’d close him into his arms now and decide to keep him forever, he’d run away. He’d run away and never come back. So Steve has to be careful. Bucky is a half-tame feral cat, and if he by any means gets the feeling that he might be trapped or not in control of the situation, that Steve wants something of him he can’t provide, or even that Steve has only ulterior motives, he will leave. Steve has to be very careful and very patient.

How fortunate that Steve has never been careful or patient about anything ever.

He gets up and fetches his sketchbook.

 ___

When Bucky finally gets around to opening Natasha’s and Becca’s presents, it’s already Thursday and Nat has threatened twice to break in and open it for him. Lucy has her left paw on his thigh as they sit on the sofa and gives him a few big, brown-eyed looks, as if she wants to say “you can do this, I believe in you”. Originally, Bucky wasn’t scared of the presents. He had said to not bring him anything for his birthday except cake and alcohol because he didn’t want the attention when unpacking presents and then possibly having to pretend to like them. As the few days passed by, he now got frightened of what could be inside. It had to be a big deal, if Natasha just ignored his wish, right?

Eventually, it’s (just) a 40 dollar gift card for a pet supply shop, with a birthday card that has a dog with a balloon in its paw on it. Natasha wrote:

_Since you explicitly told us to not get you anything, we thought we would give your new roommate a gift card for some awesome toys or treats, whatever she chooses._

_We both deeply hope and wish that you have a better year than the last. We love you and will always be there for you when you need us. Happy Birthday, James._

Bucky tears up a little, not only because 40 dollars are too fucking much, but also because Natasha is undeniably adorable, and Clint doodled a couple of ugly hearts around Nat’s perfect cursive handwriting.

With a sigh he opens the next and last present, another birthday card lies right on the top of it; this one says “Congratulations on being born a long ass time ago” and he has to smile a little. When Bucky opens it, he spots an equally long ass text on the inside.

_Happy Birthday big brother!_

_I know you said no gifts, but I found this while going through old stuff in the basement last week. If you don’t remember what ‘this’ is: it was the one teddy bear you always cuddled with whenever you were scared or nervous about something. His name is Mr. Cuddles and you had him for way too long, but Mr. Cuddles gave you security when you needed it badly._

_I foolishly hope that maybe Mr. Cuddles can do the same for you now, almost twenty years later._

_I hate not being able to tell you this in person, but you should know that you’re my inspiration, my idol, one of the only persons who might really get me. I know we’ve lost our good relationship out of sight for the past 4 years, and I know that it’s partly my fault. I should’ve tried to listen more, I should’ve tried contacting you more, I should’ve been more stubborn. I can’t change the past, but I hope to make things better from now on. I also hope you might try to explain to me how you’re feeling, and how I could help to make you feel better. I always felt like we two had the best connection out of our whole family, and I hope we can reestablish that. You don’t even have to tell me anything of importance, just how you feel and how I can help you and do things with you that you like doing. I’ll always have an open ear for you._

_Love, Becca_

_PS: The photo was taken somewhere in Siberia when we visited Mom’s grandparents._

_PPS: You’ve always been a handsome lad :)_

He finds the photo that must’ve fallen out of the card during transportation, it’s an old little instant camera print of him and Becca. He looks like he’s about five, so Becs must’ve been around four (she was born just a whopping 14 months after him; apparently his parents decided that one baby just wasn’t enough of a challenge). They’re holding hands in the photo, Bucky has his teddy in one arm and Becca holds her favorite stuffed toy, a tiger called Robert. They both show their (more or less) full sets of teeth to the camera.

 _Fuck, we were such happy kids,_  Bucky thinks. _Where did all that happiness go?_

The teddy sleeps in the same bed as him and Lucy that night.

Momma Barnes calls a day later and asks if Bucky wants to come over for a late Birthday celebration with coffee and cake. Bucky is tempted to say no. He asks who’ll be there.

“Well, me, your sisters, and possibly your dad, if he gets to leave earlier from work, but I wouldn’t count on that.”

He feels pressured to accept the offer; his mom sounds so hopeful and eager for him to come, if he declines, she’ll be devastated. When he texts Steve if he’s free at 3 pm, he gets a “no sorry! I’m at work. Anything happened?” back. Bucky dodges the question by saying that he’ll just call Nat or Sam and that he wishes him a good rest of a day.

When he calls Natasha, he’s already anxious, not only because he still hates talking on the phone, but also because 3 pm is coming closer and closer, and he definitely can’t go into battlefield alone.

Nat picks up. “Hi, I’m in the middle of a ballet practice. What happened?”

“I’m, - uh… any chance you have nothing to do at 3 pm?”

“Sadly not, I still have a class after this one. Is it urgent? I can just cancel it. The kids will get over it, most of them aren’t even good.” A “hey!” sounds from the background and Natasha scoffs. “No, you aren’t an exception. And keep your damn back straight.”

“I’ll… just manage alone. Thanks, Nat.”

“Hey, if you _can’t_ manage alone, just call me, okay? I’ll rush over to you in no time.”

“It’s fine, really,” Bucky plays it down and tries to sound as convincing and calm as he can, when he’s the exact opposite. He feels like a boiling pot of water that’s filled right to the brimming and threatens to flood the whole kitchen. Oh, and maybe burn someone while we’re already at it. Next on his list of battlefield companions is Sam, who fortunately has time for him and visiting his family for a few hours. Convenient, since Bucky doesn’t own a car, he won’t in a hundred years take the subway, and it’s already too late to walk and be there on time.

“Thanks a lot, Sam, really,” he says as he gets himself and Lucy in the car, dressed a little nicer today than usual, he’s even brushed his freshly washed hair.

“It’s no problem at all, Bucky, you don’t even need to thank me.” Sam checks if Bucky’s fastened his seatbelt with a quick glance and then starts the car. “You know, I’m only coming with you because of the cake.”

“Yeah, me probably too.” He turns his head to check if Lucy is okay in the backseats since this is only her second car ride with him (the first one was when he picked her up from the airport with Sam), but Lucy is fine, she’s wagging her tail as she watches people outside pass by through the window.

“Talking of cake, did you actually like mine, or did you just say that to be nice?”

Bucky makes a grimace at him (because when does he ever say things just to be nice, he barely talks at all) and then nods. “I ate all of its leftovers on… uh… Tuesday, I think. So, yeah. It was really good.”

“That’s nice to hear.” Sam looks like he’s torn between saying something and keeping his mouth shut. After a short silence, he says, “You know, I kinda thought you’d take your boyfriend to your parents.”

A frown makes his eyebrows scoot together. “My boyfriend?”

“Oh, uh, Steve?”

Helplessly confused, Bucky leans back into the seat. “Why would you think that he’s my boyfriend? Which he’s not, by the way.”

“I just thought that… you know, with the way he looks at you, and all your little moments last Thursday… okay, forget it please.” Sam grins into himself and rubs his chin subconsciously. “So, uh, where were you all weekend, man? I came over on Sunday, but you weren’t there.”

“Yeah, I was at Steve’s place the whole weekend.” Now that he says it, his statement from before doesn’t really sound credible.

“But, you two have, uh, something going on with each other, or what?”

“Nope, not either,” Bucky answers.

“So, you’re also not sleeping together?”

“Oh my god, no, Sam! I’m not out to bang every guy I meet! Holy shit, man...”

“Then what did you do the whole weekend if not the blonde human Dorito?”

“This conversation is over.”

“I’m just wondering, it doesn’t sound that believing!”

“We just had a good time together, we hung out. Steve painted. I watched old cartoons from my childhood. See, boring.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever you say, dude.”

 ~~~

Bucky feels like puking when Sam stops the car in front of Bucky’s old home, his friend gives him a few pats on the back and asks him to please not vomit inside his car. Bucky takes five minutes leaning against the side of the car, giving Lucy treats for being so well mannered in the car and trying to calm himself down.

As they’re finally waiting in front of the door, Bucky looks around the front yard. His mom’s garden is blooming in all its glory, and for a second he panics that _oh fuck, I should’ve brought her flowers,_  but then the door gets opened by his smallest sister Winnie and he has no time to panic anymore. She looks incredible, her hair is cut super short, shorter than Bucky’s ever had his hair, and she has dyed a few strands green. She wears some sort of fancy makeup that makes her cheeks glow, and he can spot a little tattoo on her right shoulder hidden by the sleeve of some shitty 80’s band shirt.

She hugs him without saying anything, almost squeezing him to death and he realizes how much he’s missed his little sister. He greets her back with a “hey, Winnie, nice to see you too,” as Sam lets himself inside to say hello to his Mom and Becca.

“You look stunning, Wins.” He touches her hair and lets out a chuckle. “How old are you again? fourteen?”

“Shut up,” she laughs, “you know damn well that I’m turning eighteen in May. Hey, will you be coming to my birthday party? Pretty pleeease!” She’s still hugging him, making him feel warm from inside.

“Don’t you think I’m way too old to hang out with a couple of teenagers ten years younger than me?” he asks with a smile, and she pokes his ribs in response. “I’ll think about it. Tell me, how did you get Mom and Dad to let you get a tattoo?”

“Oh, there was no parental consent involved,” Becca explains with a grin from behind them. “Would you let Bucky come in, Winnie?”

“You brought your dog!” Winnie shrieks as she lets go and gets down to pet Lucy, who’s been waiting patiently behind him. She greets his youngest sister with a wagging tail and curious sniffs of her clothing to finally start licking her hands.

When he goes inside and gives Becca a hug, he looks around; not much has changed inside the house, family and baby and graduation pictures still hang in their usual places, the ugly carpets are still the same, a few new pairs of shoes lie messily on the shoe rack next to the door and a black denim jacket with lots of colorful pins and patches got dropped on a messenger bag leaning against the doorway to Winnie’s room. He can hear Sam and his mom talking in the kitchen, making his stomach do a couple of flips just to fuck with him. Telling himself that it’s going to be fine and that he has no reason to be scared of his own mom, he shuffles through the living room and ignores the new lamp and the new wooden coffee table. When he enters the kitchen with a hesitant knock, Momma Barnes swirls around, making her apron fly, and the biggest smile he’s ever seen on her plasters itself on her face.

His mom is a tiny, round woman of about 5’4 in her mid-fifties, with long, wavy, graying black hair, and she’s probably one of the nicest humans on earth. Which is why Bucky was ultimately so scared of this moment. She has always been by his side and cradled him in her arms no matter what, and he just pushed her away, severed all contact with her, let her down.

But now she smiles as if she’s the happiest woman on earth.

Before Bucky can say anything, she’s already hugging him, pulling his face down to pepper his skin with kisses, and she’s sighing “my boy, my baby” and can’t stop laughing and happy crying.  “I missed you so much,” she whispers, and Bucky has to silently agree. Of course he missed her. He missed them all. He was just so busy with being angry that that anger overshadowed any other feelings for his family.

She lets go of him and takes a long look at his figure. “James, darling, haven’t you been eating? You’re so thin!” Her hands pull his face down so that she can kiss his cheeks again and he has to smile, but doesn’t answer her. “Come here, boy, I’ve got cake and I can make you a nice sandwich - do you want a sandwich?”

“I’m fine, thanks, Momma.” He lets her grab him by the hand and gets pulled to the kitchen counters.

And then his mom goes on asking this and that, and how he’s doing, and if this therapy thing is helping, and what he’s doing with a dog, that she never would’ve thought that he was a pet person, if his apartment is nice, if he’s working a job, if he eats enough vitamins and veggies, if he needs any of his clothes washed, if she should cut his hair, if there’s any way she can help him, if he’s still single, and so on.

It’s overwhelming and close to becoming too much, but he’s not going to cut her off now. She seems so euphoric that she can talk to him and ask questions, it would break his own heart if he’d make any attempt to slow down and lessen her flow of words. While she makes him a sandwich and then an apple and some more fruit in a bowl, Winnie comes hopping through the living room and into the kitchen with Lucy at her heels, giggling and playing with what must be a dirty sock.

“Bucky, I love your dog. Can I keep her?” Lucy snaps after the sock, and Bucky is sure that if Winnie isn’t careful, she’s going to have a strong set of German Shepherd teeth around her wrist.

“Sorry, no,” he grins, “I really need her.”

“Oh yes,” Momma Barnes picks up the subject, “Becca told me why you had this dog now, but I didn’t quite understand.”

“Um, well…” He starts biting on his lip, unsure how to explain this without sounding like a total lunatic. Lucy turns her head and completely ignores Winnie and her sock, to go over to him, sit next to his dangling legs and put her long snout between them. Smiling he leans down and pats her head softly.

He and Sam try to do their best and explain what PTSD service dogs do, and what depression is and how his anxiety affects his behavior and why he flipped out back in October, and what flashbacks are (“that’s horrible,” his Mom whispers), and what Lucy does specifically for him. He tells them about nightmares waking him at night and Lucy turning on lights and protecting him from strangers that come too close, and Momma Barnes’ eyes water a little. Winnie makes a point of asking about Depersonalization because she read about that when she informed herself on PTSD and Bucky feels incredibly touched that his tiny little teenage sister Winnie decided to inform herself on her bigger brother's mental illness, even when they weren’t on speaking terms. He tells his family about Lucy and him going for walks three times a day and “the most important thing you forgot,” Sam adds with a smile, “she loves you unconditionally.”

“Yeah,” Bucky grins, “she doesn’t even mind when I haven’t showered in four days.”

The tense mood gets lightened a little and the three girls chuckle, Momma Barnes decides to give the dog that makes Bucky feel “so much better” a very special treat (she has a big piece of veal that she had planned to make for Dinner on the weekend “but she deserves it so much more”), so while they eat cake in the living room with everybody telling what they’ve been up to in the last six months, Lucy lies on the carpet and eats carefully diced meat from a fancy dinner plate.

His mom apparently started doing bouquets for weddings and special occasions again (it makes her really happy and her eyes sparkle as she describes flower arrangements to him), Winnie has played some sort of character in a theatre production from her high school that his mom literally raves of, showing him pictures and videos on her phone, until Winnie gets embarrassed enough to snatch the phone out of their mom’s hands and put the focus on someone else again. So Becca tells a little bit about her job and how she’s bought a casing for her camera so she can take photos underwater, and that she wants to try it out on her trip to the Bahamas with her boyfriend in July (“I think he’s going to propose to me!” Bucky gives his congratulations, while his mom almost drives Lucy out of the living room with her high pitched, excited screech), that Hans (Bucky’s still not over the stupid name) is adapting just well, some stuff about old high school friends that Bucky can’t remember (apparently Jessica Somethingsomething “my best friend in senior year, remember?” has married Becca’s first boyfriend, not that Bucky really cares about those random people but he listens anyway), and then she’s down the line gossiping with Momma Barnes and Sam about neighbours and old friends they stalk on Facebook. Winnie rolls her eyes at him out of annoyance and boredom and with a telling look asks Bucky to get up and follow her into the kitchen (“we’re just getting more of the amazing cake, it's  _reaaaally_ good Mom!”), where Bucky then gets assaulted with Winnie hugging him really hard and saying that she needs to tell him something important while he sits both of them down on the steps that lead from the door in the kitchen to the garden.

“Yeah, okay, tell me,” he encourages her and feels transported back to the time he and Becca used to stay up late, smoke cigarettes and weed behind the Barnes’ backyard shed and talk about life and the universe and crushes and best friends and hot teachers until 2 am on a school day.

“I have a girlfriend!” she blurts out and grins as wide as she can.

It hits him that his little sister isn’t that little anymore. “Wow, amazing, Wins!” he exclaims and hugs her and gives her lots of kisses on her cheeks. “I’m so happy for you! Tell me everything about her!”

And so he learns that Wins’ girlfriend is called Cassandra, that she’s a stereotypical cheerleader girl with blonde hair that likes all things girly, and that they first kissed after they went to see a movie that had an unexpected lesbian twist in it, and also that by the way Winnie isn’t a lesbian, she’s pansexual and goes on to explain what that is until Bucky stops her with a laugh and says “Winnie, I know what pansexuality is, I’m gay myself, remember?”.

His not so little little sister grins sheepishly. “Sorry, sometimes I just forget.” Then she gets serious and touches his arm. “It’s thanks to you and being so open about your sexuality that I in return realized this part of myself so early. Coming out to Mom and Dad and Becca really couldn’t have been easier and I have to sincerely thank you for that.”

Bucky tries to not tear up at those words, they are real balm for his highly damaged self-view. He would’ve never believed that he’d be the person to influence someone and actually have something good come out of it. But hey, miracles do happen, right?

“She’s already met the family, well, except you, but I’d love you two to meet sometime.”

“I’d be honored, Wins, I’m still kinda… speechless.”

So they hug again and Winnie then whispers in his ear, “I have a secret about her that I didn’t tell anyone until now, you wanna know?”

“Did you fuck?” it slips out of Bucky’s mouth before he can stop himself.

Winnie snorts uglily, but her cheeks light up a nice shade of what Steve at this moment would probably describe as something stupid like “pomegranate”, so Bucky takes that reaction as a _yes._

“Hey, you be careful and not get any STDs, Wins, yeah? That’s still possible with two girls.”

“I may be only seventeen, but I’m not an imbecile, James,” Winnie says and sounds honestly offended.

“Sorry.”

They’re silent for a few moments and listen to Sam, Momma Barnes and Becca chat in the living room until Winnie clears her throat. “So, what about you? Any boyfriend?”

“Mh, nah.”

“Someone you fancy?”

“Maybe,” he reveals after a few seconds of thinking about what Steve means to him. They’re friends, absolutely, but… more than that? He can acknowledge that yes, he thinks Steve is very attractive, and he has a really pretty smile and those incredible eyes, however, if it’s more serious than just attraction, Bucky has no clue. It’s been so long since he ever liked anyone, he seems to have forgotten the rules. He doesn’t even know if he’s mentally capable of being with someone. “I haven’t known him for too long, probably six weeks now. We hang out every few days, but… I dunno, Wins. I’m not sure if I’m ready for anything close to a relationship right now.”

“I guess that’s okay too,” his sister ponders, “as long as everybody involved knows that.”

“Oh, uh, it’s not… No, we’re just friends. We didn’t… Look, we didn’t even kiss or anything, I’d doubt that there was any moment when we were together that could’ve been interpreted into anything other than friendship.” Bucky scoffs. “I don’t think I even remember how to kiss, the last time was like… four years ago or something like that.”

“Ask him to practice with you,” Winnie grins.

“That’s horrible. How did you get a girlfriend? Probably not with those pick-up lines.”

“Oh, brother, you don’t even know.”

“I’m almost sure I don’t want to.”

“Enough about me,” Winnie demands, “tell me about your guy. What’s his name, what’s he like?”

And so Bucky talks about Steve, probably longer than he’s supposed to, but Winnie listens and makes funny comments and demands photos often enough that Bucky regrets not having any, and when Becca comes to the kitchen to actually get another piece of cake, she smiles at both of them and asks if they’re having a good time. They both simultaneously agree that yes, they are having a good time.

“We should hang out sometime,” Bucky proposes when Becca leaves. “What do you teens do these days?”

Winnie punches his left biceps and then grins as she throws an arm around his shoulders. “We teens probably do the same things you adults do. Do you wanna binge watch Flipper and Lopaka like we used to when I was nine?”

Flipper and Lopaka (an Australian animated tv show about a boy called Lopaka who’s able to breathe underwater for some reason Bucky can't remember and saves the world from ultimate doom on a daily basis with his friend Flipper the dolphin) was Bucky’s guilty pleasure when he was nineteen and he and Winnie used to watch it for hours at a time.

“Sounds like fun,” he agrees. They plan their tv evening around next week Wednesday; Bucky promises to buy Reese’s Cups and Skittles, Winnie’s favorite candies, she in return promises to get Mom to make them a fruit basket like she used to when they watched the show and Bucky has to hug her again, because he had imagined everything, from everyone being angry, or disappointed, to the next huge fight, him freaking out horribly - basically he had expected a tragedy, despite trying to think positive, but he got the exact opposite.

So maybe he was afraid of them understanding him after all.

~~~

Steve calls him at half past 5, there’s chattering in the background and the sound quality of the call is horrible, but he calls.

“What was up?” Steve wants to know, his voice sounds a little like someone awfully playing trumpet through the distortions. Bucky can barely make out him saying, “You kinda evaded my text there.”

“Steve, where are you? It’s really hard to understand you, the audio is sort of fucked up.”

“In the subway,” Steve answers with a soft laugh, “sorry. I just finished working and I thought I’d call you when I finally sat down.”

“What, so you don’t drive to work on your bike and impress all the other teachers?”

“No, I don’t. Sunshine doesn’t fit in the bicycle basket.” Bucky grins at that stupid joke but won’t give Steve any credit for it, he might get encouraged to make horrible jokes even more often. “So, what happened? Tell me. It must’ve been important, if you momentarily overcame your telephone anxiety.”

“Stop making fun of me,” Bucky replies, his face sterning.

“I wasn’t! Sorry, I didn’t want it to come across that way. I’m proud of you that we’re talking right now.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

It sounds too sarcastically for his own liking, but Steve doesn’t comment his answer any further. “So?”

Bucky sighs and lets himself drop backwards on his sofa. “Well, my mom called and invited me for… I dunno, cake and coffee and I was certain that I couldn’t face her on my own.”

“Oh, so, moral support then. Sorry that I had to decline. Next time, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Steve lets out a short laugh when he doesn’t elaborate. “Bucky, what is it with you today? Why d’you make me worm all the details out of you? Did you meet your mom then?”

“Uh, yes, Sam went with me.” His fingers run absentmindedly over his forehead while he thinks about how well everything went, at least by his standards. “Mom had to of course comment on how thin I am, so she made me food and… I had to think about what you said a few weeks back.”

“How she wants to help but has to cling to visible wounds because she doesn’t quite understand the concept of mental illness?”

“Yeah, that. Sam and I tried explaining a few things, Lucy was a big help, honestly. They all seemed to understand me a bit better.”

“Glad to hear that.”

He’s silent for a few moments, and almost expects Steve to interrupt his thinking process again, but he doesn’t. “Well… So my smallest sister came out to me.”

“Oh, you have another one? You didn’t tell me about her!” Before Bucky can answer, Steve lets out a devious snicker and he asks, “does her name also start with a B?”

“Shut up, you asshole,” Bucky complains. “Her name is Winnie and she’s only seventeen, but probably more mature than you’ll ever be.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve giggles from the other side. “So, she came out to you, that’s cool.”

“It really is, and she said that-...” And then he remembers that Steve doesn’t actually know that he’s gay. What if that puts a damper on their friendship? What if Steve thinks that Bucky is interested in him? What if that freaks him out? What if he doesn’t want to be friends anymore?

“She said what? I think whatever you just said got cut off by a not spot.”

He has three options here.

Option number one: he doesn’t tell him. (Which is okay, nobody should feel obliged to come out to anyone.) Steve wouldn’t know and they’d go on just like before. Everything would stay the way it is.

Two: he tells him, but not now. That would include the risk of when telling him face to face, that he’d see Steve’s reaction - the situation could get painfully uncomfortable.

Three: he tells him right now. If Steve reacts badly, Bucky can just hang up, and he doesn’t have to look him in the eye ever again, given that’s what he wants.

Usually, Bucky would tell someone such an important thing about himself personally, but since he’s new Bucky and new Bucky has a hell of a lot of anxiety, he’s actually considering option three. He and Steve have become such good friends, that he thinks Steve deserves to know stuff like that. Also he wants to tell him how what Winnie said had touched him.

“Bucky? You still there?”

“Yes, sorry. I uhh… well, Winnie told me how her coming out was really easy, since my parents and Becca were… kinda already familiar with the subject.” He clears his throat and feels his stomach clench. “Because, you know. I, uh… well, she said how it was thanks to me, that she could be so honest.”

“How do you feel about that?”

_So that’s it? That’s all Steve is gonna say to that revelation?!_

_Maybe he didn’t get it._ “I kinda felt proud and… it really surprised me. You know, that I can have a positive influence on people.”

“I think we need to work on increasing your self-esteem a little. Of course you can have a positive influence on people, Bucky, you’re a great person. I like having you around. So, are you coming over later? You know, it’s a Friday.” The fingers that had tried to calm his frowning forehead have now slipped into his hair and he stops playing with it mid-motion when he hears Steve say that. “Bucky?”

Either Steve has missed out for the last six weeks that there’s really nothing about Bucky that makes him “a great person”, or that was a straight up lie. (But has Steve ever lied to him? No. So, he must at least believe what he says, right? Isn’t that something? ) “Sorry, I… Uh, yeah, sure. If you don’t mind me falling asleep again. I’m really exhausted.”

“I don’t mind at all. Oh, wait, that’s my stop here. Sunshine, we’re going, c’mon boy.” A few sounds of rustling and people talking and the brakes of the subway (the sound is _horrible_ , Bucky hates that sound) overpower when Steve tries to say something, but he notices just two words into his sentence and then he pauses until he’s somewhere quieter. “Sorry, I had to squeeze through a mom with a twin sized buggy and a family with travel luggage. I was going to say that uh… I don’t mind at all since it’s more about not being alone than having someone to talk to, you know?” He laughs. “Not that I don’t mind talking to you the whole night either.”

“You mean, so you can go on all about yourself and how great you are?” Bucky jokes, “You know, since I don’t really add that much to our conversations.”

“Ah, so we agree on me being great?” Steve replies with a grin in his voice and then clears his throat. “No honestly, if I ever talk too much, just stop me. I know I go overboard sometimes.”

“I was joking, I… don’t actually think you talk too much about yourself. You’re probably the only person that I can stand talking nonstop.”

“I’m glad that I’m bearable,” his blondie laughs and Bucky has to smile, he can just imagine Steve’s face, how he’ll squeeze his eyelids together and show all his perfectly white teeth and just thinking about it is infecting.

They talk while Bucky packs his things and Steve makes himself a salad, they’re still talking when Bucky leaves his apartment with a backpack and Lucy in tow, and they’re still on the phone when Bucky enters Steve’s street and can already see his house.

“I’m almost at your front door, I’m gonna hang up,” Bucky interrupts Steve with a laugh, who has been complaining about a colleague from work for the past five minutes. “Tell me about horrible Mrs. Welch when I can have something to eat while listening.”

“Sorry, I’m an atrocity, I know. I’m on my way to open said front door. See you in a sec.”

“Yeah, see ya,” Bucky laughs, hangs up and puts his phone in his jeans pocket, his steps now a little faster. He hasn’t seen Steve all week, because his blondie was busy at work, and Bucky was busy with two dog walking appointments, attending his therapy sessions, having dinner with Natasha and Clint over at their house, going to PetSmart to buy Lucy new toys (but he panicked when he was in front of the store and left again), and then meeting his mom.

The door to Steve’s house opens, and a little whirlwind of yellow fur comes hopping down the stairs and into the front yard, his wagging tail lurking just above Steve’s white picket fence. The dog’s owner follows right after and gives Bucky an excited wave, while Bucky himself tries to hurry to Steve’s house and not look like an idiot while doing so. He lets Lucy off the leash, and gives her an “ok” so she does a big jump, is over the fence and then sniffing and jumping around Sunshine.

“Hi, good to see you,” Steve greets him with his brilliant trademark smile when Bucky has reached the gate.

“Good to see you too,” he replies and smiles back, because it is good to see him. After a week of not seeing Steve’s stupidly grinning face, Bucky has to admit that he started missing him. Steve’s presence is comfortable, like a snug blanket that you wrap around yourself on cold mornings with a coffee or cup of tea in your hand. Or maybe also like taking a hot bath, when your body gets cocooned in warmth and water, and whatever bath additive you use makes you feel completely relaxed. Or maybe like taking an early walk in the woods, where you get to be at a private concert of hundreds of birds greeting the day, fresh air in your lungs. Or maybe like lying in the grass in the summer, sun shining on your face, your favorite music is playing and nobody is going to bother you anytime soon.

Yeah, that’s what Steve feels like.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few things:  
> \- am horrible with updates, sorry.  
> \- can anyone tell me why ao3 puts a space behind italics if there's any kind of punctuation coming after it??? but only _after_ i post?? i am confused af  
>  \- we're slowly walking towards relationship lane and i AM VERY excited!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
> \- flipper and lopaka is my favorite tv show. still. i am not ashamed  
> \- steve made up a really nice bullshit concept about bucky there. it's gon get debunked real soon  
> \- my computer is horrendously slow and regularly crashes/freezes on the ao3 editor. finalizing&posting a chapter usually takes me up to 3 hours and it makes me want to claw my eyes out with a spoon :) i thought it was important to share my pain with you, the reader. hello. yes, you over there. nice t-shirt you're wearing.  
> \- excuse my spelling in these i just cannot care less  
> \- these end notes were very random and passive aggressive. sorry bout that.
> 
> (almost four weeks later i noticed that the fucking ao3 editor didn't apply any kind of formatting for this chapter and it makes me so angry i wanna punch holes into walls)


	5. intertwined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **_ATTENTION: a big TW!: mention/implication of suicide/self-harm_ **  
>   
>  But it’s just a mention. Neither of that happens.  
> I know this isn’t a light-hearted theme. Suicide statistics are insanely high in the US, it's the tenth leading cause of death. Especially males are 3.5x more likely to commit suicide than females - they commit 7 out of 10 suicides. There is so much stigma around all mental illnesses, that these numbers are probably not accurate, and in reality a lot higher. I can only repeat myself and say: there is help, you will feel better, life is worth living. I hope to somehow resemble this with Bucky’s recovery.  
> There is still a list of helplines and websites in the last chapter. 
> 
> Life is worth living. There are so many beautiful things you haven't seen. 
> 
>  
> 
> (Quick song recommendations, "Low" by Coldplay has accompanied me through almost every chapter of this fic now, it's such a good song, I personally find it so fitting for depression.)

 

After a year of being back home, the nightmares still visit him almost every single night. Some are just straight up bullshit, all of his worst irrational fears mashed together in one horrible situation and when he wakes up his shirt is drenched with sweat, but he can calm down easily after those; the graphic ones, the ones that aren’t just dreams but memories, those are the worst. Because whatever Bucky tells himself, that was real. It happened. He did all of that. He killed all those people. There is no sugarcoating it, those nightmares are concrete facts.

So maybe he deserves them.

Maybe he deserves all those times he wakes up and feels sick and can’t make it to the bathroom in time anymore.

Maybe it’s just fair that his own sobs pull him out of those nightmares and that he still can’t stop crying thirty minutes later.

Maybe he’s earned his fair share of panic attacks that paralyze him for minutes after waking up, making him think every single time that this one time he’s going to suffocate for real.

And maybe that’s just poetic justice because for some reason Bucky got to live and they didn’t.

So maybe he deserves it all.

 ~~~

“Survivor's guilt,” Mrs. Milton explains, “that’s one of your biggest issues.”

“Thanks,” Bucky scoffs.

She smiles. “I know, that doesn’t sound nice. It _is_ an issue. It hinders you from living your life to the fullest. It decreases your quality of life.”

“No shit.”

“So, we have checked off the most important thing from our list: We recognized the issue. Tell me, James, why do you have survivor’s guilt?”

“I think you know why.”

He doesn’t want to do this. This whole conversation is mainly Steve’s fault. Or maybe it’s his own, since _he_ couldn’t keep his shit together, and had to freak out and get exactly one of those horrible paralyzing panic attacks just in front of him; but after all, _Steve_ had him sit down afterwards and then made him promise to talk to his therapist about his nightmares. Actually, he shouldn’t blame him, Steve doesn’t mean any bad.

So now they're here.

“I do know why, yes, but I want to hear it from you.”

“I don’t know how this is helping. Maybe I should just go.” He’s being unfair. He knows that. But he’s in one of the worst moods he’s been since the beginning of March and just that fact is overwhelmingly depressing, making him even worse and worse in a doom loop.

“Please,” she answers and nods to the door, “if you want to go, you can always leave. I’m not holding you here. You’re not doing this for me.”

“I know.” Bucky leans back on the sofa and lets his head fall in his neck, a groan leaving his mouth. “It’s just… I was fine just last week and now… It’s so _fucking_ frustrating.”

“I understand.”

That kicks it off for him.

“No, you don’t,” he answers, his voice spitting venom. “It’s been more or less a good month, Steve and I are getting along better and better, and then I just have to become a bawling and hyperventilating mess in his living room, waking him up from his own well deserved sleep, on top of that he makes me fucking _promise_ to talk about this with you, so of course now I _have_ to talk about it! And then you go on asking me why I feel _guilty_ when you know damn well that it’s _my_ fucking fault that my whole squad died, that they got ripped to pieces while I watched and now have to live with the fact that I am responsible for their deaths - that because of _my_ mistake their families don’t have sons anymore, that their parents couldn’t even see their _faces_ for one last time because there was nothing left to see! So don’t ask my why I have survivor's guilt when you know how I single-handedly ruined sixteen lives in just one second of distraction. You obviously don’t understand _anything_.”

It’s out, and it’s horrible. The first time he said it aloud - that it’s his fault, that _he_ killed them.

His therapist is silent. She just looks at him, pulled up eyebrows and her mouth small.

“Do you feel better now?” she asks after a few moments.

He just nods, because if he’ll try to talk, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself together.

“Thank you for your trust,” she says, “I can imagine that this isn’t easy to talk about.” She puts down her clipboard and crosses her legs. “I feel like this is a big step for you. But I want to check with you how reasonable your thinking is. In your opinion, that it’s your fault-”

“It’s not an opinion, it’s a fucking fact,” he interrupts her. Now he’s being rude. He can’t keep himself at bay. Being rude is better than crying.

“Stop right there. Why is this a fact? How do your actions correlate with their deaths? You didn’t kill them, James. That wasn’t you. That was the suicide bomber.”

_How do my actions correlate with their deaths? What a stupid question._ But when he wants to tell her, his voice cracks again. “I didn’t see him coming. If I had seen him… If I had… noticed him earlier, they wouldn’t’ve had to die.”

“You were almost a mile away, James.”

“And I was a _marksman!_ I should’ve seen him! That was my _job!_ I had _one_ thing to do, and I failed so tremendously that it cost five lives!” He can’t look at her anymore, because yeah, there he goes, he’s crying again. What a fucking wreck he is.

“There is nothing you could’ve done. It was a matter of seconds. Sometimes tragedies just happen. But there is _nothing_ that you could’ve done, James. It wasn’t your fault.”

“They were my friends,” he says, it sounds wet and blubbery, not as composed as he has planned. He wishes that he had Lucy with him right now, but Mrs. Milton had asked him to let her stay outside.

“I know,” she says softly. “Did you ever let yourself properly grieve over the death of your friends, James?”

Did he?

When he got picked up, asked what had happened over the coms, he felt like someone had trapped him inside his body. _They’re dead,_ he had said and his voice sounded the same - dead, lifeless, without any emotion. _They’re all dead._ That wasn’t the point though where they pronounced him _useless, broken beyond repair, a fucking trainwreck_. That happened when he got hit in the chest, right over the heart. How poetic. He almost died then, not that he would’ve minded - he got hit in the first place especially because he didn’t mind. Now, that was when they decided to send him back. _Psychological evaluation,_ they told him, and then, _you’re going home._ They put him on a plane, loaded him off in America. Mom had cried and laughed and Becca had cried and laughed, and he just wished the explosion would’ve taken him too. _Depression,_ the psychiatrist had said, _Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder,_ and then, _unfit for combat._ So they let him off the leash.

He didn’t go to their funerals. Couldn’t bring himself to. Couldn’t look in the faces of those whose lives he had ruined.

So he didn’t. Not once did he properly grieve over his dead friends.

“I think you’ve been suppressing all of this for a long time. If you would like to, you can just let it all out now.”

And he does. He breaks down and cries, and cries and cries and cries so much that Mrs. Milton gets Lucy from outside, and he hugs his dog and cries into her fur until there are no tears left to cry and it feels like his head is going to explode from migraines. Mrs. Milton hands him a box of tissues and he blows his nose and feels stupid and childish but also like a heavy weight was lifted off his chest. They do some breathing exercises, to calm him further down, and Mrs. Milton asks him to come back on Friday, so they can now properly talk about how to fight against his nightmares. He leaves with another package of tissues and walks back to his apartment listening to a white noise rain playlist on his phone for the whole way.

 ~~~

**_So how did your therapy session go?_ **

Bucky doesn’t answer him; he’s drained, has no energy left inside him. Today was too much. Lucy is on top of him, her head lying on his chest, and he has both arms around her body, and he just feels empty. Not sad, or angry, or hopeless, or tired. He’s just empty. All his emotions are used up.

His phone buzzes again, and when he looks on the display it reads “Was it bad? Do you need me to come over?”

The hand that holds the phone drops onto Lucy’s back again and he closes his eyes.

It buzzes again, now in a constant rhythm, and Bucky only realizes that it’s a call, when it has already stopped vibrating in his hand.

**_Hey, Buck, I’m kinda worried. Please just text me back. I get it if you don’t want to talk on the phone. That’s okay, just give me a sign of life so I don’t freak out over here._ **

A little pang of guilt makes his chest hurt (he’s been avoiding him for a few days now) and he slowly writes, **_im fine dont worry_ **

**_Should I come over? I have ice-cream in my freezer._ **

He doesn’t want company. Not now. He just needs to be on his own for the rest of the day. Process everything. Start the next day with a clean slate.

**_im fine i just wanna be alone i ll text u tmrw_ **

If Steve came over he’d be able to make him feel better in a brief span of maybe half an hour - but he doesn’t want him to come over for the same reason that Mrs. Milton didn’t let him have Lucy for the first forty-five minutes of their session today. He needs to work this out on his own, and just let himself grieve and be unhappy. He’ll tell Steve that tomorrow.

**_Alright_ ** , Steve answers after a few minutes. **_I’m here whenever you need me. Let me know if I can help you._ **

Steve is a good person, and Bucky doesn’t deserve him.

 ___

It’s the third weekend in a row that Steve has gotten the spare mattress out of the garage and Bucky has fallen asleep on it while they’re watching some random movie. It’s the third weekend in a row that he has equally fallen asleep on that mattress and then changed to the sofa when he woke up from Lucy squeezing between them, but tonight, he wakes up from wet, frantic breaths, and two pairs of dog feet carelessly walking over his own legs. He’s completely awake as soon as he realizes that it’s Bucky who’s breathing so abnormally.

It’s still in the middle of the night and the moon lets sparse light into the living room, but still Bucky’s wet cheeks reflect it like a mirror. Lucy is licking his hands and nudging his ribs, but Bucky doesn’t move. His chest heaves with every breath he takes, erratically rising and falling.

Panic attacks are horrible; Steve remembers right now how much he hated them. It’s been years since his last one, but he still remembers how helpless he would feel every time. And Bucky seems to have the hyperventilating kind of panic attacks - because not only does he have to have them at all, a stasis of complete horror and stress, no, he also has to feel like suffocating while doing so.

Steve sits up, and he reaches out to do the same with Bucky, but then remembers that that could actually make it worse.

“Hey, Buck,” he says softly, “you’re having a panic attack. That’s fine, you’re not going to die. I’m here for you, okay?” Bucky makes a strangled noise, but he still doesn’t move except his chest trembling under his irregular breaths. “You’re hyperventilating,” Steve says, “If I can touch you, sit you up, I will help you breathe, okay?”

The panicking mess that Bucky is, manages to nod, his lips parted wide, saliva running down the sides of his mouth, his eyes full of terror. There is nothing beautiful about it, nothing poetic, there’s not a single thing he could say to make this moment seem any less terrible than it is. Bucky is horrified, he is in pain, he’s crying, he can’t move. There’s no way to blandish this.

Steve hates seeing him like this. He hates seeing him hurting. He would give literally _everything_ to rid Bucky of all his pain - physical as well as psychological.

He helps him sit up, leans his back against the sofa, and then puts himself down right in front of him. Taking Bucky’s hand, and putting it on his chest, he starts talking. “Try breathing with me, okay? Just calmly in and out. As deep as you can. It’s hard right now, I know that. It will stop in a moment.” Bucky’s fingers are shaking on Steve’s chest, he must have a huge amount of adrenaline going through his veins, nevertheless he follows Steve’s breathing instructions, and when his chest is no longer shaking like during a type 7 earthquake, Steve moves on from getting Bucky’s oxygen levels lower to actually stop him from panicking. “You’re okay, I’m here,” he repeats once again. “Try and feel each part of your body. How your back is connected to the couch. Your legs are on the mattress. Your one hand is touching your dog, I am holding the other. Feel the weight of your body.” Bucky closes his eyes, and Steve can feel his pulse in his hand. It’s still way too fast, but it’s a lot better. He leans over and uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the saliva from Bucky’s face. “I’m here,” he says softly again, “nothing can hurt you.” He lets him sit for a few more minutes, keeps on talking easily until he tells him that he will get some water and he’ll be back in a few seconds; Bucky clings to his hand like it’s a lifeline. In the kitchen, he gets a bottle of cold water, very sweet chocolate and minty gums from his emergency cupboard, then walks back to their provisory night-quarters in the living room. Bucky drinks the water as if he’s been parched for days, a few drops fall from his lips and down his chin, and Steve can only imagine how good it must feel on his feverish skin. He takes the closed bottle and carefully holds it to his neck; Bucky leans into the cold touch of the glass with a sigh. When he gives him a piece of the chocolate, Bucky pulls a face, because it’s incredibly sweet and doesn’t taste too good, but it will help him come back to reality. Also, the sugar should do a little good for his circulation and help against the lightheadedness he’s probably feeling. Another sip of water and they’re through it. Bucky’s hands are still jittery, and his skin is hot, but he’s over the worst.

“Thanks,” he finally whispers, and Steve lets out a relieved sigh.

“Anytime,” he answers. “How can I help you?”

“Just hold me, please.”

So he holds him, puts his arms around his torso and pulls him on his lap, their heads fall onto each others shoulders, and Bucky’s hands claw into the fabric of Steve’s shirt as if he’s scared that Steve will vanish into thin air if he doesn’t.

If they wouldn’t have ended up through Bucky’s panic attack in this moment, Steve might actually be happy that they’re hugging this intimately. But they did end up like this through Bucky’s panic attack, so he isn’t. There was nothing voluntary about how vulnerable Bucky was, the trust he gave Steve was obligatory in that moment.

Maybe, if they had ended up differently in this position, Steve would slowly be starting to fall in love. Maybe he would notice how nice Bucky’s body warmth would feel against his skin, or how good he would smell, or how soft his hair would be, or how his breathing pattern would match up with his own.

But Bucky’s skin is hot and sweaty, his hair is in tangles and his breathing is strained.

So there is nothing romantic about the way he’s holding him. In this moment they’re a hundred percent just friends and that’s exactly the right thing.

___

If their incident does anything at all, it drives Bucky away from him. At breakfast he’s closed off, his eyes stare blankly into a non-existing distance, and he answers questions sporadically or not at all. He shimmies away from all touch, which hurts at first (Steve is such a tactile person, it’s become almost a habit of giving Bucky little pats on his back, touching his wrist or his arm when he talks to him, putting an arm around his shoulders when they walk next to each other, bumping his feet against Bucky's under the table, nudging his shoulder when he says “c’mon”, poke his ribs when he teases him), but then Steve puts his little crush aside. This isn’t about him.

After Bucky halfheartedly tells him that a nightmare caused the panic attack, Steve makes him promise to talk in therapy about it, since Bucky didn’t think it was important to ever tell his therapist that he had these horrible nightmares. Then Bucky leaves without really saying why; he pulls the hood of his jacket over his head as Steve watches him walk down the street from his kitchen window, and he feels like shit. Bucky is more closed off than when he first met him in that café. At least then he had wanted to talk and listen to him, but now… he doesn’t even want to stay. Steve can’t help but project it onto himself again; he did something wrong, he approached him badly about the nightmare, he made a mistake, maybe Bucky did interpret something into that embrace even though Steve was so sure that it wasn’t anything romantic, he should’ve let go sooner, he should’ve been more careful about his words, he shouldn’t have pressured him into talking with his therapist about it.

And now it happened, his feral cat lost its trust and fled.

He doesn’t answer his calls or texts all Sunday, so Steve gives up. Bucky obviously doesn’t want to talk to him, so maybe he’ll just have to wait it out until Tuesday’s therapy appointment.

In the night from Sunday to Monday he paints in the attic to try and calm his thoughts, but it doesn’t work that well. Sunshine comes over and lies next to him, while Steve is sitting on his feet, adding new blots of colors to paint stained floorboards.

He calls Peggy on Monday, but she doesn’t answer, so he leaves her voice messages explaining the situation and bashes himself until Sunshine alerts him to his own quickly decreasing mood with taps of his paw on his knee. Steve makes himself some calming tea and listens to seagulls screaming and waves crashing on a beach. Peggy calls back as soon as she has heard all the voice messages, scolding him for being so unrealistically pessimistic.

“That’s not like you, Steve,” she says, “think about what you learned. This isn’t what happened. You aren’t a bad person. You handled the situation as well as you could.”

“But then why did he leave?” It’s almost embarrassing how desperate he is. Yes, he gets attached way too fast, but this is an infatuation of a kind that’s even ridiculous to Steve. “I must’ve done something wrong, I’ve always been able to calm him down and make him feel better, it’s obviously my own fault-”

“Steven, you’re being ridiculous. This isn’t your fault, you’re overreacting. He’s mentally ill, it probably hasn’t even remotely got something to do with you. I’m sure that what happened must’ve been intense for both of you, but just think about only his perspective. He isn’t that far with his recovery as you. In that moment he was completely helpless, he had no control over the situation. Maybe his dream was highly traumatic. Let him take his time. He’ll come back to you.”

“I’m so stupid,” Steve groans, “I shouldn’t have hugged him. That was inappropriate, Peggy, I’m so fucking stupid.”

“Steve! Listen to yourself! You’re being irrationally pessimistic! He _asked_ you to hold him, and I am sure that he didn’t interpret anything into it, this has nothing to do with what you did! Just think about it, how would you have felt in that situation? Giving yourself over to someone you haven’t known for that long, showing a side of you that you possibly don’t want anyone to see, letting yourself be fragile like that, just imagine, how would you feel?”

After a short silence, Steve clears his throat. “Probably… overwhelmed by my feelings.”

“What do people tend to do when they’re overwhelmed?”

“Step away from the situation that made them feel that way so they can calm down…?”

“Exactly. So now. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re also just human.”

And now he feels horrible about making it about himself when it’s not at all about him, and he starts complaining again, but Peggy just says “shush, you stupid big softie. Remember that you also have a mental illness. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

He thanks her, and tells her how much he loves her, she says it back with a laugh and then they talk about happier things.

On Tuesday morning on his way to work he can’t resist texting Sam about Bucky (his nightly overthinking pressured him into it); they’ve been writing each other every other day or so, talking about movies or shows they watch and sometimes even Sam’s self-help group (Sam had invited him to talk to the other vets a little about his life and his service dog, and Steve had gladly accepted), one time they exchanged baking recipes, but not even once did they speak about Bucky.

**_Hi Sam_ ** , he writes, a little nervous, he could be crossing a line here, **_I know we never write about Bucky but I need to know if he’s been in contact with you recently?_ **

**_what_ ** , Sam texts back immediately, another text following directly after it, **_you 2 arent talkin?_ **

**_No, he kinda left abruptly on Saturday morning and we haven’t spoken since then. He won’t respond to my texts or calls, so now I’m worried about him._ ** He gives Sunshine a few head pats, more to calm himself than the dog.

Sam sends him a couple of shocked emojis, and then writes, **_I spoke 2 him just yesterday on the phone, he seemed a little absent minded but nothin out of the ordinary_ **

Now Steve projects onto himself again (so maybe it is his fault after all if Bucky is fine with talking to Sam?), but Sunshine gives him a tap and a long look that seems to say “you know better than that”, so Steve calms down. It’s irrational. This hasn’t got anything to do with him.

**_I would usually never tell you this without his consent_** , Steve begins typing, and he’s being honest, he would never tell anyone something he was told or that happened in confide, **_but I’m just really worried. He had a nightmare at my place and I had to help him calm down from a severe panic attack, so he left in a pretty bad shape. I felt like he was worse than when I met him in the end of February, but he wouldn’t talk to me._ **

**_worse than in february????_ ** Sam texts back, **_are u thinkin he might hurt himself?_ **

Steve actually wasn’t thinking about that, but now his anxiety has instantly quadrupled. **_I don’t know, can you maybe just call him since he’s answering you? I’m freaking out_ **

**_yeah will do buddy wait a sec_ **

It takes almost ten minutes until Sam texts him back. Steve feels like fainting out of sheer worry. **_I talked to him and he said he will go to his therapist appointment today, but also that he isnt feelin good, so I made plans with him for later this week. he seemed sane. maybe check in with him after his appointment again_ **

Steve lets out a relieved breath when he reads that, and his shaking hands are a little better now. **_Definitely, thanks a lot, Sam. Are you sure he’s holding up?_ ** , he writes.

**_absolutely sure. he cursed a lot. anger is good. hopelessness, that’s bad._ **

Steve has to agree, anger is good. Whenever he was aggressive, it was his brain trying to not be depressed. It’s not the best coping strategy, actually, it’s not a strategy at all, but it’s better than sinking into complete desperation that depression provides you with.

When it’s twenty past three, Steve decides on texting Bucky again. He should be out of his appointment by now.

**_So how did your therapy session go?_ **

Bucky doesn’t answer. Steve feels like screaming at someone. Ten minutes later he fires off another text. **_Was it bad? Do you need me to come over?_ **

He still doesn’t answer, and after another ten minutes pass, he has to excuse himself from his class doing group work and goes outside into the hallway to call him. The line rings almost endlessly long, and when it picks up, Steve’s heart sinks as the answering machine starts rattling down “Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. ‘ _James Barnes_ ’ is currently unavailable. At the tone-” He hangs up.

A kid that’s doing some work on the hallway floor flinches when Steve’s fist meets the wall. He is so upset that his peripheral vision starts going blurry.

**_Hey, Buck, I’m kinda worried. Please just text me back._ ** His fingers won’t stop shaking and he has to retype most of the words at least three times. **_I get it if you don’t want to talk on the phone. That’s okay, just give me a sign of life so I don’t freak out over here._ **

Finally, his phone gives off a short buzz.

**_im fine dont worry_ **

With his back against the wall, he lets himself slide down on the dirty ground. _God, Bucky. What are you doing to me?_ This were by far the worst four days of his entire year. He hasn’t been this anxious in ages. With less jittery fingers he slowly types back, **_Should I come over? I have ice-cream in my freezer._ ** Maybe he can bait his feral cat with something sweet, so he’ll allow him around again.

**_im fine i just wanna be alone i ll text u tmrw_ **

Okay. So that hurts.

The blank stare onto the white wall covered in black stripes from shoes and bags last for at least two whole minutes. Steve feels like he’s sixteen again, and he just got rejected by his first crush. He may have grown nearly a foot since then and almost weighs triple as much, but his heart is just as heavy as twenty years ago. So it had to do with him after all. Steve’s impatience and selfishness fucked it up once again.

And because he hasn’t ruined enough already, he finds himself writing, **_Alright._** ** _I’m here whenever you need me. Let me know if I can help you._ **

___

On Wednesday morning while he’s on his way to work, Steve has already been exchanging voice messages with Peggy during Breakfast (“you’re overgeneralizing the situation, Steve, you have no idea what’s going on in his head, stop being so pessimistic, this isn’t the end of your friendship”), Bucky finally texts him.

**_sry for cutting u off like that yesterday_ **

Steve stares onto his screen, thinking about what he wants to answer. _It’s okay?_ No, it isn’t. It isn’t okay at all. And it’s not exclusively about yesterday, but also about how they left things on Saturday.

While he thinks, another message coming in makes his phone give off a soft _ding._ ** _i just had to be alone for the day, it had nothing to do with u_ **

_Holy shit._ This whole back and forth of _it’s his own damn fault, he made a mistake_ and _leave your crush aside_ is going to give Steve a literal heart attack. He’s momentarily relieved and wants to answer something along the lines of “are you feeling better?” or “how are you doing today?”, but Bucky fires off another text.

**_maybe u wanna call me and i can explain it better_ **

He does right away, fucks on waiting an obligatory five minutes, he doesn't care if it's desperate - he just wants to hear Bucky’s voice and be sure that he’s okay.

It rings once, and then he picks up.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Steve echoes, sounding breathless, even though he’s sitting, waiting for his train to arrive. “How are you doing?”

“Mh,” Bucky makes, and Steve can imagine him shrugging and pursing his lips. “I dunno. It’s been a few harsh days.”

“Okay.”

“Mh,” Bucky makes again.

“Can I do anything for you?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” Then he sighs. “Well, maybe. Let me explain first.”

“Okay, sure, I’m listening.”

“Well, I… My therapist said I should try explaining why I left on Saturday, but I don’t know if I can... I mean, you were there. It was pretty… extreme.”

“Yeah well…” Steve inhales sharply. “I thought that we handled it well. But, I guess maybe not.”

“No, it’s… you didn’t do anything wrong, Steve.” He can hear shuffling around from the other side, almost like sheets rustling, and considering the time, he probably still is in bed. Steve’s over-imaginative mind can’t help but paint him a picture of mocha brown hair on white sheets like dry leaves in the snow. “No, I… Listen, usually I have these kinds of panic attacks and I just have to endure them for thirty minutes or something. In comparison, Saturday was amazing. Really. Thank you, again.”

_Thirty minutes?_ Steve feels the strong urge to get up, take the next train to Bucky and just hug him for that long. How does he even get through that all on his own? “So, what was wrong then?” Steve asks instead.

Bucky sighs and moves, the bed frame creaks in response. “I’m… don’t be offended, okay? I just can’t tell you. I don’t even want to… think about it.”

“No worries, that’s fine.” Not really, actually; Steve wants to know what happened that Bucky put up all his barriers again, but if he can’t or doesn’t want to tell, then he has to accept that.

They both take a moment to just breathe in silence, until Bucky starts speaking again. “So... uh… I was just feeling like shit, honestly. And yesterday...” Bucky sighs heavily before he goes on. “Yesterday I went to therapy, and… well, I promised you something, right?”

He did, unwillingly and unhappily, but he promised Steve to address his nightmares with his therapist - a success for Steve in that moment.

“So we uh… talked about that. And then I was just so _exhausted_ afterwards, and I had to let myself feel like shit for the rest of the day, you know? I felt like… if I would suppress it again, I’d have another breakdown in no time.”

Actually, that’s totally reasonable. Why Steve didn’t think about that, he doesn’t know. He's had those days more than enough. “I understand,” he answers empathically and leans back on the uncomfortable bench he’s sitting on; a hand runs through his hair while he goes on, “but, Buck, I would’ve been there for you, you... don’t have to go alone through any of that.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, and he can hear a clear smile in his voice now. He knows exactly what it looks like, and his heart gets a little lighter. How one edge of his lips quirks slightly upwards, making a tiny dimple appear in his cheeks, reaching his eyes so that soft lines crease around them, how tendons in his jaw tense and make his cheekbones cast shadows even harder than usual. “Of course I had to be alone. If you would’ve come over I would’ve been suppressing again. Similarly, had I stayed on Saturday, I would’ve probably been moody, but not to this extent.”

Steve has no idea what on earth is he saying. Absolutely no idea.

“I don’t understand.” His response comes late and Bucky notices and lets out a short laugh.

“Steve, you make me _happy_ \- I can’t be around you when I need or want to be sad, you stupid blonde.”

_What…?_

Bucky laughs again. “See, at the beginning of this call, my mood was kinda low, and now I already feel better. That’s how easy it is. You have like... a really positive influence on me.”

“Say that again?”

“I feel better and you have a positive influence on me?”

“No, before that.”

“Stupid blonde.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve rubs his temple, not able to contain the smile on his lips. His body feels like someone coated every single square inch of it with honey, sweetness rising up to his head and clouding his thoughts. “No, before that too.”

“Oh.” A surprised giggle. “You make me happy.”

So maybe Bucky isn’t a half-tame feral cat after all.

 ~~~

“We should do something this weekend,” Steve suggests with his nose deep behind a book about post-modern art. “Like- actually do something.” The last week of April it has been raining non-stop, so they’ve been inside apart from walking their dogs. Not that Bucky has any complaints against that. It’s currently about 50 degrees and coldness hasn’t found it’s way out of the list of things he hates abysmally.

“We always do _something_ , Steve,” Bucky answers and wonders if Steve is reading or just pretending to read so Bucky can unnoticedly marvel at his insane eyelashes.

“No, like, _actually_ do something. Like... go somewhere.”

“What are you thinking of?” Bucky pulls his stare from Steve’s eyes and returns to browsing on Steve’s laptop. Since he doesn’t actually have Wi-Fi or a landline at his apartment, whenever he wants to research something he has to either ask someone to do it for him, do it from his phone and use up all his data, or he has to steal Steve’s laptop.

“I don’t know. Do you like museums?”

“Do _you_ like museums?” Bucky echoes, he doesn’t care what they’re doing, as long as they’re doing it together. And it’s indoors.

“Yeah, I do, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“I dunno,” Bucky shrugs and types _weird mix of cucumber and green pepper with even weirder name_ into the Google search bar. What Steve made for lunch was… kinda exotic, and he’s too proud to ask for its name _again_. “Think so, yes.”

“You think it would work out with your anxiety?”

“Museums are quiet, right? Wide open spaces, big entryways…?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“Should be fine,” he says and frowns when he sees that the first two search results just point him to salad receipts and the rest is as equally unuseful. “What museum are you taking me to?”

“Oh, I’m taking you?” He can see Steve grinning out of the corner of his eye and tries not to blush. He fails. _Well, that could’ve gone better._ “I didn’t know.”

“I was assuming since you- since you never let me pay for anything so- so I…” Okay, this stammering is starting to get embarrassing. Better just stop right here and stop digging his own grave.

“So you just assumed I’d do the same now.”

Bucky tries to vanish into the sofa cushions and hide behind the laptop screen. It doesn’t work at all.

Steve lets out a long breath and then chuckles. “Well, I thought about taking you to the New Museum in Manhattan.”

“How do we get there?” Clicking randomly on a few links, Bucky tries to pretend that didn’t happen.

“We could take my bike?”

Thinking about that idea Bucky scratches his chin absentmindedly. “But then the dogs have to stay behind. Who would spontaneously dog sit on the weekend?”

“Probably no one.” Steve turns a page and Bucky throws him a quick glance. He still wonders if he’s actually reading.

“Yeah, think so too.” He actually thinks of Clint and Nat, but he doesn’t want to trouble them with two more dogs.

“We could uber there.”

“No, that’s stupid. What if the driver wants to abduct us?” It sounds paranoid as fuck, but Bucky is serious. He heard some freaky stories and now has a decent amount of respect for Uber. (Uber drives and taxis in general have sneaked themselves onto the list of things that scare Bucky shitlessly; requesting a stranger to pick you up while giving away your phone number and location? This is exactly what his Momma had taught him to _not_ do on the internet.)

Steve doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t even grin at that, he just nods. “Understandable,” he even says. “Well. We could walk. But I don’t know if that’s a good idea either.”

“If you plan on piggy-backing me after half an hour, sure.”

Now Steve smirks and mumbles something under his breath that Bucky can’t make out. “So, uh, then… Public transportation is the only other thing I can think of.” Bucky groans as an answer and Steve shrugs. “I know, you don’t like that either. But at one point you really have to challenge your fear.”

“I’m not ready for that.” Bucky only needs to imagine the dreadful rattling and screeching of train carriages, flashing lights in the underground, masses of people, biting piss stench, being trapped in the confined space for minutes and he can feel anxiety climb up his spine like a parasite.

“Will you ever be?”

It sounds like an accusation that Bucky has to defend himself from, but maybe that’s just his depressive imagination flipping out on him. So, _let’s look at this realistically._ Will he ever be ready? If he keeps on putting it off, ignoring and avoiding it, waiting until he feels better, gets stronger, grows a thicker skin, will he then ever be ready?

“Probably not,” he concludes his thoughts loud for Steve to hear. He’ll just be making it worse for himself.

Steve turns another page and nods. “Exactly. Do you wanna try? I’ll be by your side. If it’s too much we’ll just go back home.”

“And you won’t laugh at me, right?”

Now the book in Steve’s hands slowly sinks to his lap, and his blondie frowns. “Laugh at you? No, why should I? I get you, Bucky. You know, I don’t own a car because I would constantly get panic attacks in the small space, I really get _exactly_ how you’re feeling.”

“I didn’t know that that’s the reason you don’t have a car.” Bucky catches his eyes and says quietly, “I didn’t really think you could be unhappy.”

Steve scoffs and supports his head with his arm as he gets more comfortable in his chair. “Why would you think that?”

Bucky shrugs and looks back at the laptop screen although he's stopped giving it his actual attention three minutes ago. “Just because… I dunno, you’re always smiling and laughing, and you look at everything with such a positive… energy, I just kinda thought maybe you were never unhappy.”

The corners of Steve’s mouth twitch upwards and he subtly shakes his head. “Bucky, everyone gets unhappy sometimes.”

“I literally cannot imagine you sad.” It’s true - if he thinks of Steve, he can’t picture his face without a smile, it’s impossible. Out of a sudden impulse, he asks, “when was the last time you were unhappy about something?”

“Uh… When… you didn’t talk to me for four days a few weeks back, actually. But-”

“Wait-wait-wait,” Bucky interrupts, sitting up straight and locking eyes with the long-lashed ones across from him. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“I didn’t think it was important.” He shrugs, and Bucky notices how he blushes, just softly on his cheekbones, but hey, he’s never seen that on Steve before either.

“No, wait,” Bucky repeats, “can we elaborate this further? How did I make you upset?”

“It’s still not that important,” Steve tries to stop him with a wave of his hand.

“Like, I know you were worried, which I am really sorry about, I just didn’t think that… you would worry about me. You know.” He shakes his head and closes the laptop. He thought that Steve wouldn’t even notice or care that Bucky wasn’t answering him. Not that he wants to accuse Steve of being unobservant or a bad friend, Bucky just doesn’t deem himself worthy enough to be worried about. When he noticed on Sunday that Steve had been calling him a couple of times he was tempted to write back but then eventually forgot about it. “Please, tell me.”

“It’s… really not important,” Steve says again and actually _shies_ away from Bucky’s eyes as if he’s embarrassed.

“Tell me, Steve, or I might need to hate myself even more than I already do.”

“No, okay, you really don’t need to hate yourself over it, it was more or less my own fault.” Steve sighs. “I felt like… I had done something wrong and, I don’t know, chased you away with my behavior. It didn’t really help that when I spoke to Sam, he told me how you two had talked on the phone, and then I just… It’s so stupid, really, you don’t need to feel bad. It’s more that _I_ should feel bad, and believe me, I do - making your situation about myself. It was just so, so stupid.”

Bucky’s eyebrows scoot so close together that his forehead actually starts hurting. “Steve, I’m… I’m _so sorry_. That was _never_ my intention. Really. I didn’t want to make you… think that I don’t like you anymore, or I didn’t appreciate all your help, or… anything like that.”

Steve shrugs nonchalantly as if he didn’t just highlight those four days as awful in his otherwise constantly happy life. “Like I said, looking back, it was completely stupid.”

“But that doesn’t make it less valid,” Bucky objects. Thinking about what he would like to hear from someone now, he decides on reassurance. “Unless you want me to leave, I’ll hog you and your sofa indefinitely. Don’t.... think that I don’t like you.” And then before he can stop himself he’s saying “You’re my favorite person on this planet.”

A smile makes its way back on his favorite blonde’s face, reaching his eyes, soft lines around them turning into crinkles, lashes feathering over his skin as his eyelids close, and Bucky is breathless by his beauty. “Thanks, Buck,” he says as he looks up, his eyes locking with Bucky’s, “the feeling is very mutual.”

 ~~~

Just entering the subway station makes Bucky brutally break out in sweat. He clings onto Lucy’s leash and Steve’s arm as they go down the stairs. His knees shake like he just ran a marathon. He isn’t able to talk for the whole time they wait for the B train to arrive, so Steve feeds him with little anecdotes from his week. Bucky fails to listen to at least half of them because his ears are ringing with pure fury.

“What if I have to throw up?” he asks suddenly, his voice sounding hoarse.

“Well, that would be unfortunate, but nothing we didn’t get through before, right?”

Bucky makes a sound that he has no idea what it’s supposed to mean, but it sounds like he feels sick. Which he does. Really sick. When wind starts tearing on his jacket, Steve takes a few steps away from the track and gives him an encouraging smile. “You can do this. I believe in you.”

And there it is. That sound.

Bucky feels like peeling the skin off his face.

The station almost bursts with the echo of screaming brakes.

The train appears in the short tunnel and enters the station, lights flashing hectically. Gunfire and detonations merge seamlessly with reality.

Everything inside him screams to haul his ass up to the surface and never under any circumstance ever enter a subway station again.

The train comes to a stop, doors open with a violent hiss and then noises explode around him. Endless people talking, bags and jackets scratching against the doors, plastic squealing as it meets glass, shuffling feet dragging over the floor, someone sings loudly accompanied by a portable speaker, a glass water bottle bursting on the concrete, wheels from a skateboard thundering over the ground, a child screams so loud his ears feel like they’re bleeding.

His vision is blurry and the ground is shaking.

When his eyes find the train again, Steve is in the doorway. He smiles. “You can do this,” he says.

All other doors close, except the one Steve is standing in and holding open with his arms. “You can do this,” he repeats, “You've come so far.”

Doors open and close again. Steve stretches out his hand.

“I believe in you.”

Bucky takes the deepest breath of his life, makes a step forward, closes his eyes and takes Steve’s hand.

Through the entire ride, his fingers cramp around Steve’s hand, knuckles white. His whole body is so tense that he can feel various muscles starting to burn. Steve makes an effort of talking lightly to him.

“I’m so proud of you,” and “you’re doing great,” and “you’re amazing, Buck,” and “don’t forget to breathe,” and “if you don’t stop clenching your jaw your teeth are gonna get pulverized,” and “are you still feeling sick,” and “it’s over soon,” and “you’re so brave,” and “no really, so brave”.

Bucky keeps his eyes shut, the constant flash of lights is just too overwhelming. He tries not to think about being trapped inside a metal tube going 25 miles per hour in a pitch black tunnel 50 feet underground. Steve gives him more words of encouragement and talks about the things he had for lunch. Bucky is supposed to concentrate on and visualize the ingredients but he couldn’t care about food any less at the moment.

The ride takes twenty-four minutes but Bucky feels like he’s been sitting in that tube of fatal death and claustrophobia for _hours_ when they get off the train at Grand Street Station. Bucky doesn’t stop holding Steve’s hand, he needs to hold on to his friend or he might actually fall and hit his head and probably black out. Steve doesn’t say anything and even if he would, Bucky doesn’t know if he’d be able to let go of his anchor. When he can finally see gray skies and hear busy New York traffic relief washes over him like a fucking tidal wave. It’s over. He didn’t die.

Breathing in (more or less) fresh air through his mouth and letting his head drop in his neck, trying to stop the ringing in his ears, he leans with his free hand against a wall that encloses a park right next to the exit of the station.

“Holy fuck,” he mumbles after a minute of silence and recollecting himself. Never in a hundred years would he have thought he’d enter a subway again.

“You did it,” Steve says and squeezes his hand.

Ah, his cue to let go. _Kinda embarrassing anyway._

He loosens the grip on Steve’s hand, ready to retreat and mumble some sort of excuse, but then Steve’s fingers softly stroke over the back of his hand until they land over his own fingers, silky fingertips sneak into the spaces between them, and suddenly their hands are intertwined.

For a tiny second, Bucky is tempted to ask what the _fuck_ Steve thinks he’s doing; you don’t hold hands with mass-murderer Bucky Barnes who killed his own friends.

The second passes, and Bucky thinks, _this is sort of okay, I guess._

And because he has no idea how to address this anyway, he just rolls with it. Maybe this is a thing they do now.

“Are you proud of yourself?” Steve asks and starts walking and guiding them down the street, and since they’re holding hands, Bucky just has to follow, more or less blindly. Well, there’s no going back from this now. Fate has decided, holding hands seems to be their new arm-on-the-shoulder-thing.

“A little,” he admits and starts looking around. It’s been months since he went somewhere that wasn’t in a 8 block radius of his apartment (excluding his therapist, but her office isn’t somewhere this heavily busy). “Mostly just glad we’re out of that thing.” His eyes follow the people that have dogs and he wonders where they are going. (It’s weird, thinking about how each and every single one has a life of their own. Some might even be equally scared of human interaction as he is.)

“And you didn’t even have to throw up,” his hand-holding friend grins and bumps his shoulder. “Still think you’re a slave to your mental illnesses?”

Bucky had mentioned on their walk to the subway station closest to Steve’s house that a lot of times he feels like even though the military gave him free, his mental illnesses took his newfound freedom into their greedy hands to eat him away, tie him to his bed and never let him leave again. “Less, now,” he answers. “Maybe I’m not completely useless anymore.”

“You’re not useless, Bucky,” Steve frowns, “just because you react differently to various stimuli than a neurotypical person would, doesn’t make you useless. You don’t condemn someone with a flue for not being able to for example get out of bed, right?”

Bucky sighs. “That’s something _completely_ different, Steve.”

“Why? Isn’t a mental illness still just an illness?”

He takes a few seconds to think about what to answer to that and then lets out a frustrated groan. “Okay, okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not different. Still. Getting my brain to understand that, _that’s_ a different thing.”

“Tell your brain to fuck off,” Steve says simply, “praise yourself for the little things you do, and don’t put yourself down for those you can’t.”

“Easier said than done,” he mumbles, readjusting his fingers in between Steve’s.

“Practice makes perfect,” Steve replies, a smile in his voice. “Do you wanna stop holding hands?”

Okay, so they are going to talk about it? Bucky’s heart involuntarily misses a step out of sudden nervousness, and he croaks out “my palms are just sweaty.”

He’s always started sweating while holding hands. He hated it in third grade when Rachel pointed it out and all the girls in his class started making fun of him, he hated it when in middle school his first girlfriend Jordan decided on telling the whole year that Bucky Barnes was so nervous with just holding hands that he broke out in sweat, and he still hated it when he held Zach’s hand in public for the first time, and he asked him if he wasn’t ready to come out. Bucky _was_ ready to come out, for fuck's sake.

Steve laughs softly. “I don’t mind. I have also been blessed with sweaty hands. Didn’t even notice.”

Well, isn’t that fortunate? Somehow Bucky doesn’t hate his sweaty hands that much now. “Girls always used to make fun of me for it,” he tells Steve with a self-conscious smile.

“Well, I’m no girl.”

“Obviously not.” Clearing his throat, he adds, “That would be kinda weird too, you know, since I’m gay.”

“Ah,” Steve says, his thumb running over the back of Bucky’s hand, making him think, _this is far from okay, this is fucking brilliant,_ “I had already guessed, either that, or something like bi.”

“Projecting again?” Bucky asks more as a joke, but Steve shrugs with a smile, says an unaffected “maybe, yeah” and then points to a crosswalk.

“We gotta turn right here.”

“I’m following you.” He gives Steve’s hand a squeeze. “More or less involuntarily.”

“Excuse me,” his hand holding friend laughs, “nobody’s forcing you to.” He starts loosening his grip on Bucky’s fingers with a grin, making a move to actually let go of it.

“No - It’s fine, really.” If Bucky is honest, he doesn’t want to let go of Steve’s hand now. Even though there’s surely sweat pooling between them, it’s actually kinda comfortable. As if they were supposed to hold hands all along. _Okay, now that’s cheesy._

“Well, if it’s fine…” Fingers curl firmly around his own again and as they stop at a traffic light, he gets pulled into Steve’s side. “Then I’m glad I’m not being a total jerk.”

“Do you have some kind of inferiority complex?”

“No, why?”

“Because you constantly need to hear how great you are?”

“That’s simply because I am,” Steve explains with a grin and pokes Bucky between the ribs. It doesn’t hurt but he still groans as if he just got stabbed, “and you can’t appreciate me and my greatness, after everything I’ve done for you...”

“You’re horrible. Straight up the most horrible person in the world.”

“Be careful what you say or I’m not paying for your museum ticket.” Steve now has the audacity to actually pinch his cheek, earning him a deadly glance.

“Stop that. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” says his favorite blonde human dorito with a laugh, fingers moving to Bucky’s hair, pushing fly-away strands behind his ear.

“No,” Bucky admits with a sigh, his stomach going up in flames, “no, I really don’t.”

 ~~~

Ignoring all the things that would usually ride his anxiety into lethal levels is terrifyingly easy with Steve by his side. They spend their afternoon so close that they don’t need to raise their voices above whispers; the only time they’re not touching is when Bucky takes strolls around the rooms by himself when it’s completely empty, to look at photographs and sculptures in detail without having to flee when someone comes too close to him. Whenever Bucky feels like fleeing though, they sit down somewhere and watch the people - looking at them from afar isn’t that scary as being right next to them.

“Let’s play a game,” Bucky suggests during their sixth time sitting down in fifteen minutes.

“Are you bored?” Steve wants to know.

“Not at all.” Bucky musters an old lady that throws them (and especially their dogs) disapproving looks. “Are you?”

“No. What’s the game?”

“So, Nat and I used to play this all the time when we were teenagers. I will start to describe a person in this room to you, but not their appearance. You will have to guess who I’m describing. Lemme make an example.” He pauses and looks around the room. “So… my person… probably comes home late from work and complains to their spouse about how annoying their boss is. They also look like they might be into hiking on weekends and sending their kids to six-week summer camp so they can have a wellness vacation. Who is my person?”

Steve leans over his shoulder with his arm (his warm breath hits Bucky’s neck) and unobtrusively points into the direction of a man in a white polo shirt and expensive jeans. “That guy?”

“Nope. He’s more of a pretentious art hoe, don’t you think?”

Steve snorts, loud enough so that a few people turn their heads. “What in god’s name is a ‘pretentious art hoe’, Bucky?”

“You know,” Bucky is tempted to lean his head against Steve’s arm, it’s heavily inviting on his shoulder, but decides against it. He shouldn’t go overboard. “Someone who has like… those modern paintings with only two colors on it in their minimalistic black and white office and can and _will_ talk at least eleven minutes as to how that work particularly is relatable to nowadays issues in society, especially teenage apathy towards politics and general lack of interest in American culture and all that bullshit.”

“That’s weirdly specific,” Steve replies, his body weight shifting, his torso leaning against Bucky’s back. They’re silent for a moment; Bucky enjoys the feeling of Steve’s heartbeat through his shirt and thinks about how comfortable any kind of physical contact is with Steve, like they were made from two halves of a mold.

“They end up at museums like this and very seriously talk to their partner, who is clearly twenty years younger, about how sad it is that society has changed so much and how movies and video games aren’t any forms of art,” Bucky goes on as he watches the man in the polo talk to a girl at least half his age. “Typical art hoe.”

“I didn’t know you were that judgemental,” Steve comments with a grin in his voice. His chin now rests on Bucky’s right shoulder, boring into Bucky’s collarbone. He doesn’t point it out. In a strange way, it still is comfortable, even though the pain slightly stings in his bone.

“Not really judgemental,” Bucky ponders, “I guess I just like imagining and making up scenarios about other people’s lives.”

“Mh,” Steve makes, but he sounds genuinely interested. A minute or so passes without it becoming awkward, however, silence with Steve is rarely awkward. “Is it that woman with the kid?” he asks suddenly, stretching his index finger out and subtly points to a woman with a probably four-year-old child at her hand. The child is surprisingly well mannered and just runs around curiously asking questions about installations and weird artworks instead of crying and screaming out of boredom.

“Nope,” Bucky answers again. “Her offspring is way too quiet for her to want to have it get off her chest.”

“Mh,” Steve makes. He lifts his chin from Bucky’s collarbone and turns around, his fingers running over Bucky’s shoulder as his arm slips with his movement. “Is it the woman with the dyed blonde hair in a ponytail, expensive handbag, and the bright trainers?”

“Yeah,” Bucky grins, “good job.”

“Next one?”

“Usually it would be your turn now, but I can do another, if you want to.”

“Yeah, go on. I like this game.” Steve now sits so that their backs touch. Bucky is sure that his spine must be stabbing his friend to death, but he just sighs in content, a hand outstretched to his side, supporting his weight. It lies invitingly there, like it just waits for another hand to rest over it. Bucky resists his temptations.

“So… uh, my person looks like they’re either a college art student who drinks straight black coffee late at night from a dirty painting mug while listening to, uh, folk-rock, or they are a literature blogger that writes poems into a generic notebook while waiting for their triple-venti-soy-no-foam latte at Starbucks. No in-between.”

Steve chuckles, it vibrates through Bucky’s body and makes him think about how it would sound if he had his ear on Steve’s chest. “Again, weirdly specific. Did you think of these beforehand?”

“No,” Bucky grins confused, “Why would I?”

“I dunno, to impress me?”

“No- I… I’m making these up along the way.”

“That’s even more impressing. Uh, is your person that guy with the beret?”

“No. Don’t you think he’s definitely missing a baguette though?”

Steve laughs, his head dropping backwards against Bucky’s left shoulder, with his cheek touching his hair. “Now that’s a lame stereotype, you can do better than that. Is it the girl in the overalls and the long cardigan?”

“Yep, that’s her.”

Said girl in this moment pulls out a Starbucks cup from the bag dangling over his shoulder.

“Aw,” Steve notes with an audible grin, “I would’ve bet she was the first one.”

They play their game for five more rounds, Steve never wanting a turn, and so Bucky invents weird stories and facts out of thin air, the woman with the red hair is frustrated because her husband is cheating on her with his secretary, the older man with the walking cane angrily shouts after teenagers and kids on skateboards because if he wasn’t able to have this kind of fun “in the old days”, kids now shouldn’t either, the girl in her early twenties with the green trousers buys her clothes only from thrift shops and texts only in abbreviations. Steve gets better at every guess, even joins in with his own little imaginative facts about random strangers; they end up debating if a guy with ripped jeans is more of a punk-rock (Bucky’s guess) or a charts (Steve’s suggestion) kind of guy long enough so that the room has cleared out and Steve gives in, taking Bucky’s hand and pulling him to a painting he had been eyeing for a while.

On the seventh floor, they go outside on the balcony, even though the weather has changed from cloudy with about 70 degrees to cold and windy; Bucky leans on the railing and watches tiny humans hurry down the street. “It’s weird,” he says, “how calming it all seems from above.” Following the way of a businessman with a suitcase with his eyes, he murmurs, “Like there is no way that these random ass people could scare me that much.” Steve doesn’t answer, not with words at least, he leans down on his arms next to Bucky, their shoulders touching, making Bucky wish there wasn’t fabric separating their skin. His hair flies in his face long enough to annoy him and want to go inside where Steve offers to braid it. Surprised, Bucky searches Steve’s eyes, but he doesn’t elaborate where that skill comes from. Bucky sits on the ground, Steve kneels above him, French-braiding his hair, making Bucky think about how they ended up here. If he hadn’t dissociated that horribly in January, if Steve hadn’t run along his way and called Sam… Where would he be today? Still in his apartment, looking outside of windows for hours without really seeing anything, unwashed hair and clothes, nothing holding him in this life? Slipping away more and more with every passing hour, living on leftover pizza and weekly therapy sessions?

Fingertips run gently over his scalp, making goosebumps travel over Bucky’s entire skin. When was the last time someone has touched him this tenderly? (Five years ago? The fucking army ruined his entire love and sex life.)

“Where do you know how to braid from?” he finally asks after Steve is already halfway finished.

“My mom made me braid her hair for work every morning,” his favorite blonde friend explains.

“You never talk about her.”

“Yeah, well…” Steve sighs, his fingers working fluidly through Bucky’s hair. “She died. When I was eighteen.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to answer to that. Life is just so horribly unfair. “I’m sorry,” he finally decides on, when his braid gets finished and Steve demands a hair tie.

“It’s alright,” Steve says and runs a hand over Bucky’s head, catching in short strands that fell out of the braid. “It was a very long time ago.”

Bucky suddenly realizes that he knows close to nothing about Steve. He doesn’t know about his family, what his mom’s name was, what she looked like, he doesn’t know about his father, if Steve has any sisters or brothers, where he was born, what happened in his past, what school he went to, where he lived, who his friends are apart from a guy called Tony, what all his favorite colors or movies or bands are, how he ended up in the army, if he went to college, why Steve teaches and why he isn’t an independent artist, if he speaks any other languages, what his biggest wishes or fears are, why he can’t sleep on Friday nights.

All of that hasn’t mattered until now, and Bucky suddenly feels stupid for not taking more interest in Steve’s life. He’s been so preoccupied with himself and his own endless problems, that he didn’t think about asking even one of those questions in the countless times they’ve been together.

“Do you have any siblings?” he finally wants to know after a too long silence, that Steve spent with tucking in the loose hair strands into his intricate work.

“Only child,” Steve answers, and Bucky can’t make out what he feels like just from listening to his voice.

“And your dad?”

“He died even before. I was two, or something like that.”

Bucky feels a horrible, sinking feeling in his stomach. “Aunts, uncles, grandparents?”

“Nope.” He tugs one last time on Bucky’s hair. “Here you go.”

When Bucky turns around, he doesn’t expect to see Steve this happy, but a content smile is on his lips, making his eyes shine. “But… Who cared for you then?”

He chuckles and gets on his feet again, holding a hand out to pull Bucky up. “I did.”

“But you were _eighteen_ ,” Bucky exclaims while grabbing the offered hand and also coming to a stand.

“That’s why I joined the army,” Steve clarifies with a smile, not letting go of Bucky’s hand, but entangling their fingers again.

“With _eighteen?!_ Are you fucking serious?”

“Oh, wow, I didn’t know that would make you so upset.”

It does make Bucky upset, incredibly upset, actually. That an eighteen-year-old boy whose mother just died feels like he has no other option than joining the army and risking his life - that makes him _furious_. Bucky joined out of his own decision, it was his own mistake, he is responsible for what happened, but Steve - he didn’t have anybody in this world and so he thought that he might as well die on the battlefield? Yeah, it makes Bucky upset.

“How long were you in combat?”

“Five or six years, something like that.”

“Oh my God.”

“Bucky,” Steve smiles and pats his chest with his free hand, “it’s alright. That was also a very long time ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Of course it fucking matters,” Bucky rages, “this is a part of your history, of your life, something that shaped you-”

“Bucky,” Steve interrupts him, his hand still on his chest. “You don’t understand. It doesn’t matter anymore, not because it wasn’t horrible or I’m in denial of what extent that decision had - it doesn’t matter anymore, because _I_ decided that it doesn’t. I decided for myself that it isn’t a part of what shaped me, but that I can shape myself.”

“But-”

“You don’t need to understand that,” Steve says slowly, “that’s okay. You just need to accept. All these things aren’t important to me anymore. They aren’t what makes me _me_.”

“How can you forgive so easily? The system made you fight a war when you were still a teenager! It ruined your life!”

“Ruined?” Steve asks, “I am happy, healthy, _alive_. I have a dog that follows me everywhere I go, I have a home and friends, time to paint and walk wherever I like, I have you. My life is far from ruined, Bucky.”

“You could’ve been an artist, you could’ve had a _life_ when you were risking it for someone else’s _bullshit_ lies-”

“Bucky, take a deep breath, okay? I _have_ a life. I can’t change what happened in the past, so I decided to not let it take control over my life _now_ . It’s the _past_. It can’t hurt me anymore.”

“But what about your mom? Don’t you miss her?”

“Of course I do sometimes. But she is dead. She has been dead for half of my life. You don’t need to understand, okay? Take a deep breath. You’re going all red out of anger.”

“I just can’t-… I don’t get how you can be so forgiving.”

“I’m not,” Steve smiles, “I didn’t forgive. I just deemed things more important my attention. One of those things is you, and I think this conversation is not doing you good, okay? So let’s stop here.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Bucky is still angry, angry that Steve, regardless of what he's been through, what lies the system told him to throw away his life, looks at his past with a smile, that he isn’t bitter, that he looks forward and is _happy_ and then Bucky realizes how stupid he is acting. Instead of being glad that Steve isn’t as miserable as him, he gets upset. Instead of feeling hopeful that one day he might think the same, he wants Steve to see the situation as pessimistic as he does, wants him to think his way.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a few minutes that Steve has been leading him through the museum again.

“It’s fine. I seem to forget that it hasn’t been that long for you. Wounds are still sore. Maybe our service isn’t a good topic overall.” Steve sighs. “Maybe this is something you should rather discuss with your therapist.”

Bucky thinks about it for a moment. Maybe if he’d talk to her about it, she would understand why it makes Bucky so angry to think about an eighteen-year-old Steve joining the army and risking his life.

They walk for five more minutes in silence, Steve not letting go of Bucky’s hand while he looks at paintings, and Bucky is still angry. “Is it okay if we go home?” he asks, trying to keep his voice under control.

“Sure. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

“I don’t want to take the subway again. Can you call an uber?”

It takes ten minutes and they’re sitting in some stranger’s car, listening to the radio, their two dogs in the back seat with Bucky. Steve and the driver make small talk, talk briefly about disabilities and service dogs, while Bucky pets Sunshine and Lucy and looks out of the window and tries not to think about the possibility of getting abducted by their driver. He only realizes that Steve has given Bucky’s address when they stop in front of his apartment building, and Steve opens the car door for him. They don’t actually exchange any words until Bucky has kicked his shoes off his feet and sat down on the sofa with a sigh.

“So, uh… I’m gonna take off now.”

Bucky’s heart sinks a little - he’s just constantly fucking things up, of course after pulling that scene at the museum Steve now wants to leave. Not that Bucky can blame him. “Can you stay?” his mouth just says, without his brain being able to stop it. _Great._ Now Steve will want to leave even more.

“Sure, I mean - given that’s what you want.” Steve’s hand on the door handle sinks and he puts it in his jeans pocket.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Bucky asks in return, but he already knows the answer to that question. He’s been closed off again.

“I just assumed you want to be alone.” Steve sighs and pulls a face. “I shouldn’t do that. I should ask. Sorry.”

“Do _you_ want to stay?”

“Of course I want to stay, I was just... I was trying to give you room. A lot happened today.” (They both know what he is talking about without saying it out loud.) He finally moves from the door, takes his shoes off and then goes to the kitchen where he starts getting stuff out of the fridge and the cabinets. “I thought that maybe it was kinda overwhelming for you. That you needed some time and space for yourself in your own four walls.”

His own four walls.

This might be _his_ apartment, yes, but Bucky has never considered the small three barely furnished rooms his _home._  He didn’t really choose living here, moving was a mandatory part to start his therapy, most of the furniture was left by the previous owner, and really the only thing that Bucky added to the apartment is Lucy’s blue dog bed (that she doesn’t use anyway because she rather sleeps by his side), and the window armchair. If Bucky is completely honest with himself and his feelings, Steve’s chaotic-creative house feels more like a home than even his parent’s place. But maybe that’s just Steve himself, and not the house.

“It’s fine, I calmed down,” he says after a while, meaning it. There’s still that deep boiling fury, but it isn’t aimed towards Steve anymore, because what can Bucky change now, seventeen years later? Nothing. He can do absolutely nothing. Maybe that is what’s frustrating him.

They spend the rest of the day and evening on Bucky’s couch, watching tv and talking about the pieces in the museum they liked the most. Steve makes dinner with what’s left in Bucky’s fridge, and after they’ve eaten and a couple of new tomato sauce stains have found their way onto the cushions, Bucky drifts off with his head on Steve’s shoulder a documentary about archeology playing in the background.

 ~~~

He wakes up from falling down a ledge and hitting the ground. The falling nightmares are becoming more and more frequent and the worst thing about them is, that Bucky doesn’t wake up right before he dies, but after. Being dream-dead is a feeling of complete pitch blackness on his chest, suffocating him. His body floats in nothingness and when his consciousness realizes that it shouldn’t be thinking, experiencing any feelings, that it should be non-existent, he wakes up, gasping for air.  
It takes him a moment to orientate himself, it’s still dark outside, emergency lights from a police car down the street dimly light up the room in blue and red. He sits himself up, and runs his fingers over his face, pressing the tips into his skin. He’s alive. It’s fine.

Getting his breath back, he looks around the room, eyes adjusting to the lack of light quickly. He can’t spot Steve or the dogs anywhere. They’re not in the bedroom either, he notices as he stands in the doorway with wobbly legs. Steve made the bed though, and when Bucky goes back to the living room he notices that Steve’s shoes and jacket are gone too. He pours himself a cold glass of water and gets his phone out of his sweatpants pocket to text Steve and ask where he is. A message on the lock screen shines brightly at him when he turns it on, eyes hurting from the blinding light.

**_Hey, I took the dogs for an early morning run, I’m going to be back in at least half an hour._ **

The message was sent at half past four, making Bucky wonder why the hell Steve is up at such an early time. The thirty minutes are over, it’s almost a quarter past five now. With the cold glass on his lips, he calls his human dorito, the line rings three times.

“Hi, Buck, I was just out for a run, no worries.”

“It’s in the middle of the night, Steve,” Bucky answers without a greeting, “why are you out?”

“I woke up and couldn’t go to sleep again,” Steve explains, and Bucky can hear sirens in the background.

“Are you somewhere close?”

“Oh, yeah,” he replies. “I’m on the roof.”

“You’re what?” Bucky isn’t sure if he misheard that.

“On the roof.” An audibly visible grin is in his voice. “We’re just chillin’ up here.”

Bucky sets the glass of water on the counter and frowns in confusion. “What roof are you on?”

“Your apartment building’s. It’s really nice up here. You wanna join?”

“Why the hell are you on the roof? Are you crazy?”

“Possibly,” Steve grins, with a distant “Hey, Sunshine! _Stop!_ Do _not_ eat that!” following.

“But... isn’t the roof access locked?”

“Might be, yes.” He laughs. “God, stupid dog, stop that.”

“Then how the fuck did you get up there?”

“Can you keep a secret?” Steve answers, his voice lowering to a whisper, “I am able to walk through walls.”

“Steven,” Bucky says drily, “did you fucking break into the roof of my building?”

Steve makes a hissing sound by pulling in air between his teeth and answers, “Maybe I did, maybe I’m a secret superhero and able to walk through walls. We’ll never know. Come up here, it’s a really nice view.”

“I thought you were thirty-five, not fifteen with a desire to get arrested.”

“Why, are you secretly an undercover cop?” Then he giggles, “Bring out the handcuffs, Officer Barnes, I surrender voluntarily.”

Bucky’s stomach does a flip backwards. And another. Suddenly his knees are very unsteady and he has to hold onto the kitchen counter to stabilize himself. His face and chest are burning with heat. What the hell is Steve doing? Is he… Is he actually _flirting_ with him?

“Sorry, bad joke. Can you bring a blanket? It’s colder up here than I had imagined. Oh, and also some cheese and the mango juice?” It’s a joke. _Of course it’s a joke._

“Are you having a picnic up there?” Bucky chokes out, still gripping onto the counter.

“Actually, kinda. I got some stuff from 7-11. You alright? You sound like-”

“Yes, I’m fine, you jerk. Anything else?”

“A water bowl for the dogs? Oh, and maybe a table knife.”

“You can’t be fucking serious.”

“Thanks, you’re a gem!” Steve laughs and hangs up, leaving a shaky and confused Bucky with a pounding heart and sweaty hands in the kitchen, holding onto the counter for dear life.

 ~~~

He arrives at the rooftop out of breath, he had to stop at the thirteenth floor to get some air and dragged himself up the last two stories with his hands clutching the railings. Steve sits with his legs crossed on some kind of air vent, his phone playing brassy music through the speakers, and he’s peeling an orange, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to have breakfast at half past five in the morning on a rooftop with two dogs.

“Where are the handcuffs, Officer?” Steve asks casually, and Bucky has to stop himself from tripping over his own feet. _This man is going to fucking kill me._

“I have no words for you,” he answers as he drops the blanket into Steve’s lap, puts his backpack next to his feet, and then sits down next to him. “How did you get the door open now?”

“I picked the lock,” Steve grins and offers him a huge piece of peeled orange. “You want some?”

Bucky shakes his head and throws a glance to the bag Steve has put down next to him. “What did you buy?”

“Just some fruits, water, a pie, sandwiches, and cigarettes.” He leans down and grabs a pack of Bucky’s favorite cigarettes out of the bag and puts them in his hand. “Here you go.”

“How d’you know that I smoke?” Bucky asks, touched by the gesture. He puts the package into the pocket of his leather jacket, where it joins his lighter. He’s not going to smoke right now when Steve is eating. He might be an asshole, but not a rude one. At least most of the time.

“I noticed an empty pack in the trash bin,” Steve shrugs, “also sometimes your jacket smells like smoke, so the connection wasn’t really hard to make.”

“That’s… Really nice of you,” he mumbles as a response. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They’re silent for some time, and while Steve eats his orange with one hand and with the other pours the dogs some water into a bowl, Bucky marvels at the perfectly clear view they have on the nighttime skyline. He gets that feeling again, a kind of calmness at knowing how far away everyone is, and that for a while, nobody except Steve is going to come too close to him. It feels lifting, almost, like none of his usual troubles exist in this moment, a bubble of altered reality of some sort - like he is a different person on this rooftop. Almost like old Bucky. He would’ve _loved_ this, probably would’ve taken his overnight dates here to drink tequila, listen to some shitty music and make out. He would’ve been overly cocky about it, likely picked the locked door himself, to impress his date and then bathe in self-confidence as he’d lead the way to a spot close to the edge.

Bucky wonders for a moment where he went wrong, why nobody stopped him, why nobody said _Bucky, going to the military isn’t exactly one of your best ideas_ , how he let his overconfidence reason over logic. He was twenty-two and threw his life away for an image of fortitude, strength and resilience. He had imagined it so much more glorious, and for a moment it was. Listening to his sister say _that’s my brother Bucky, he’s in the army,_ and seeing approving faces felt so satisfying that he was sure he was doing the right thing; hearing his dad boast on the phone about how brave everyone thought he was, how proud he was of hearing that his rank had been risen to Sergeant boosted his ego to unreasonable levels. And God, he had looked amazing in the uniform; the day the photos got taken he was antsy with excitement, made sure his hair sat perfectly, bragged about his ability to charm the photographer into letting him hold his hat instead of wearing it. The photo still hangs among the rest of the family photos in his parents’ house, next to his and Becca’s graduation pictures, as if it was something to be equally proud of. _Look at our son, who killed countless people in the middle east, isn’t he a good looking young man?_

Steve nudges his side with his elbow, pulling him out of his thoughts, and offers him a sandwich. He takes a bite and pulls a face. “Nope, don’t like this one,” he mutters and Steve chuckles and they swap without talking about it. Their way of nonverbal communication is something of its own, like they’ve known each other for years, _centuries_.

“What are you thinking about?” Steve asks after a while of them sitting and staring at the out of the darkness rising towers specked with little lights (nearly like stars) and his blonde counterpart humming along to songs playing from his phone’s speakers.

“How I almost feel like old Bucky, sitting here,” he says instead of talking about the army. That subject got discussed enough in the last twenty-four hours.

“Old Bucky?”

“You know,” he sighs and leans his elbows on his knees so he can support his head with his hands, “my past self, not fucked up by all that shit going on in my head. That’s old Bucky. And me now, the fucked up version, that’s new Bucky.”

Steve says nothing for a few seconds, chewing on his sandwich and staring into the distance before he throws him a quick, questioning look. “Do you actually see that as two different persons?”

“Kinda,” Bucky confirms, “I feel so weird thinking that old Bucky once lived in this body. Doesn’t feel real, you know.”

Steve straightens his back and he now locks eyes with him. “That sounds a little unhealthy, that mindset.”

Bucky just shrugs. It might be. A lot of things he does aren’t exactly healthy. Including not eating and sleeping regularly, smoking and drinking alcohol, thinking that he isn’t worth a single thing, and not looking in the mirror because he can’t stand his own reflection. “It’s true though,” he says, “I can’t really remember how old Bucky would live, but, I dunno, sitting here right now I can almost imagine.”

“Tell me about it,” Steve demands, voice gentle.

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m new Bucky now.”

“Alright. If you don’t want to, that’s fine.” He looks away again, fingers tapping in rhythm to a song on his knees.

He thinks about how if he were old Bucky, they wouldn’t be asking questions now. They wouldn’t even be talking, because old Bucky was anything but shy and never held back. Old Bucky was expressive, loud, boisterous, he liked attention and occupying the center stage, everyone’s eyes on him, bursting with confidence because he could afford it; Bucky entered the room and it was him that everybody wanted to talk to, it were his jokes that got everybody laughing, he was proud and so present, the world revolved around him (in a good way, though, not an obnoxious one). And even when he came out as bisexual at the end of high school, he wasn’t teased or bullied for it, no, if you had a thing with Bucky Barnes, you were someone. Old Bucky was a (boy)friend you were proud to show off to friends and family. And what is he now? A wreck beyond repair.

“I’m just… I dunno, I don’t want you to hear it and think how miserable I am and that you’d rather have old Bucky than new Bucky.” And how easy it is, to share his insecurities with Steve. He feels so safe, like he couldn’t be in better hands with the man with the smile as bright as the sun. What walls does Steve even have to tear down now? Bucky isn’t hiding anymore.

Steve’s hand stops tapping to the beat and instead runs over Bucky’s back, over all the hills and valleys of his spine, to rest right between his shoulder blades, fingers spread wide. “Bucky,” he says, and something about the way it rolls off his tongue makes Bucky’s heart swell in his chest, like his name is a magic healing spell, and it was only intended to be said by Steve and nobody else, “Bucky, I don’t think there is any way you couldn’t make me want to have you.”

Someone must’ve tampered with the laws of physics, because he is sure that earth’s gravity has just lowered, the way he feels like he’s floating, just like the moment right before you fall asleep. It’s almost like he’s heavy and light at the same time, his heart has somehow grown, pushed away all the dark spaces in his chest, used up every little bit of energy and feeling to fill the vacuums and black holes, lifted towards the sky, close to bursting out of all the seams, and still his hands are pulling towards the earth, like they’ve been dipped in black oil, movements are slowed down by its threads.

When he looks at Steve, meets his eyes, Bucky reconsiders what he told Winnie in March, how he doesn’t know what Steve is to him. It’s not like that changed, nearly seven weeks later, he still doesn’t know, but he can cancel out friends. Best friends maybe, although that doesn’t seem like enough words to describe it. It’s more than that. It’s more significant, more grave, more intimate.

It’s more. Just so much more.

But this is going too fast, the chair is at its tipping point, and whatever happens next decides if Bucky stays in equilibrium, or if he falls into imbalance, if Steve will be there to see it all.

The part of him that almost resembles old Bucky on this rooftop at quarter to six in the morning wants to move, wants to risk and go after desires and chase the feeling in his chest, make it deepen and fill his head until he drowns in it and can’t think anymore.

The other part, the one that gets driven by hypersensitive instincts wants to pull back and shrug his swelling heart off, ignore the changed laws of physics and pretend like they’re still the same, run away from the mergence that’s looming on the horizon, and indefinitely say _I’m not ready for this._

And since he isn’t old Bucky, he stays, his heart beating strongly against his ribs, breath out of rhythm, limbs heavy in oil threads. But since he also isn’t quite new Bucky, here on this rooftop at quarter to six in the morning, he stretches out one of his hands towards Steve as he looks away, hoping that he will understand, that he will give him a little more time to figure things out, to apprehend how all of this works again.

Steve takes his hand, and as much as Bucky wants to say _old Bucky would’ve kissed you now, but I’m sorry, I can’t,_ there are no words needed, Steve does understand. They’ve known each other for a century.

They watch the sunrise together, and Bucky realizes that this was Steve’s intention all along and that he didn’t just get up way too early to break into the roof access for kicks but to show Bucky the beauty of the sun.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i have risen from depression fort like a phoenix from its ashes. or pizza in the oven. either way - i'm glad to finally get this out, cause this chapter has been nearly finished for over a month now!!! 
> 
> a few (more or less) unimportant things!:  
> \- All the things that steve did for bucky during his panic attack are things that might actually help someone having one! (Staying calm and being loving and kind and understanding are the most important things tho! if nothing helps just call an ambulance to be sure that nobody faints ok)  
> \- you might've expected something way worse to have happened to bucky, but marvel already managed to make the most tragic character in history in both their comics and films, i decided to just give him a break. you don't need to be a brainwashed, tortured POW of 70 years to be allowed to hurt and be miserable. you don't even need to have something tragic happen to you, sometimes our brains just get sick. that doesn't mean that that pain and those problems aren't valid.  
> \- even though my bucky is a rich repository of problems and different mental illnesses, i still try to make him as relatable and easy to understand as possible, so maybe someone who isn't familiar with a particular illness/disorder can better comprehend the way a mentally ill person thinks. i also wanted to shine a light on the side of someone who might've been recovering/in therapy for a long time, but can still fall into old thought patterns. i feel like there might be a steve in everyone's life: a person that seems constantly happy with their whole life, able to withstand any kind of stress, and it makes me personally think "so what the hell is wrong with me?" every time i see that person react better. and here's the secret: these persons also have bad days, because just everyone has them, even if it doesn't seem that way.  
> \- that being said, we're almost on relationship lane!!! it's just around the corner! my two boys have progressed so far and it makes me so happy.  
> 


	6. rosa centifolia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick disclaimer: Bucky implies briefly in this chapter that PTSD is not a real disability, and he should therefore not really need his service dog. Please remember, that Bucky's opinion isn't my own unless I explicitly state so, and that he isn't the most reliable narrator, and therefor talks _a lot of bullshit._ Invisible disabilities are as valid as visible ones.
> 
> (I want to also recommend another song - ["Intertwined" by dodie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZEttwxdTTQ) \- one of my current favorites. _yes it has the same titel as chapter 5 i swear i only found it after posting_

 

The first time that they sleep in Bucky’s bed (and that Bucky sleeps in his own bed since March) is the same night that they buy the new mattress. In the store, Steve insists that Bucky lies on all the mattresses he thinks are good for at least ten minutes and  _then_ decides if he wants to buy them, since Bucky is urging him to leave soon. The open room combined with the flurecent lighting make him nervous. Lying down on mattress choice number two, they get lost in conversation about biggest wishes and dreams.

“Okay, but decide between the two - if you could only have one.”

“I think I’d have to go for living by the ocean,” Bucky ponders, watching the flickering neon lights on the ceiling spell out D-U-C-K in morse code.

“You kinda already live close to the ocean.” Steve pulls up his knees, shoes resting flat on the mattress. The owner of the store emits a very irritated sigh from a few aisles of beds behind them.

“No, like… A tropical beach by the ocean,” he explains. Now the lights spell out F-F-S. “You know, with palm trees and sand and constant sunshine.” Steve’s dog on the ground lifts his head, and Bucky has to smile. “Not you, stupid dog.”

“Hey, don’t call him stupid. He’s a good dog.”

“I’ll call whoever whatever I like to. You’re stupid too,” Bucky grins and yelps as Steve bores a finger between his ribs.

“ _You’re_ stupid,” Steve echoes and his hand stays on Bucky’s bones, following the bumps up and down through Bucky’s shirt with his fingertips. “So, by the beach, huh?”

“Yeah, somewhere nobody will bother or find me.”

“I’m offended,” Steve grins, his fingers drawing wobbly lines across Bucky’s rib cage, “nobody?”

“Absolutely nobody,” Bucky confirms, “can’t think of anyone I’d want to have there.”

“You’re seriously hurting my feelings, pal,” Steve says dramatically and clutches Bucky’s hand. “And here I thought we were special.”

“What about you?” Bucky answers, ignoring Steve’s statement efficiently, “what’s your biggest dream?” They  _are_ special. But Steve knows that, there is no need to say it out loud.

“Probably marrying,” Steve answers, his voice earnest now. “Either that or having kids, at some point. Neither of that in near future, though.”

Sometimes he forgets that Steve is a real grown up, with a job and a house, pushing forty. It’s never really obvious, their age gap of nine years, Steve can be so childish (in a good way, not an annoying, immature one) and playful, it’s rare that he gets super serious about something, so in moments like this, it almost surprises Bucky how their ideal futures differentiate from each other. Bucky doesn’t want to have kids. No, he really doesn't. There are enough humans on this earth already. “I think my sister is going to marry soon,” Bucky sighs, “either her, or Clint and Nat. Not sure how I feel about that.”

“Marriage in general or the persons marrying?”

“A bit of both,” he considers, adjusting his fingers in between Steve’s.

“I don’t want to cross any lines here,” Steve says slowly, “but were you and Nat together?”

“No-no, god, _no_ ,” Bucky has to laugh at the thought, “no, what a horrible couple we would’ve made. No, never. She’s so dominant, we would’ve clashed constantly, apart from the fact that I was denying my sexuality. Also, she’s just... _scary._ She knows things about me I don’t even know myself.” Granted, they’ve known each other for a very long time, they met in middle school at a boxing tournament - Nat was the only girl in the teams. She kicked his ass in quarterfinals and won second place. They started talking when they realized they both had Russian roots, eventually became friends and have been ever since.

“Clashed how?”

“Mh,” Bucky makes and goes on explaining, “You know, I was super cocky and equally as dominant. That would’ve been like trying to push two magnets with the same poles towards each other. Opposites attract, likes repel. We've been fighting enough without us being a couple.”

Steve seems to think for a moment, then he asks, “‘Was’? Not anymore?”

“Nah,” Bucky shakes his head with a faint scoff, “not anymore. Not at all.”

Steve turns on his side, pushing his free arm under his head. “Funny, cause I’d say that sometimes you still are.”

“For example?” Steve’s eyes travel down his face and neck, and he feels very exposed for a moment.

“When you get angry,” he says slowly, “or passionate about something.”

“Mh,” Bucky makes as a reply, still watching the flickering neon lights. For some reason, it is embarrassing to hear this from Steve.

“It’s kinda hot,” Steve says, his breath hitting Bucky’s skin. Before he can really react, Steve goes on, “So, what do you think about this mattress?”

“Great,” he answers and sits up, swallowing heavily and lets go of Steve’s hand. “Let’s buy it.”

 ~~~

They carry it up the whole six stories into Bucky’s apartment, Steve supporting most of its weight, and Bucky navigating through the staircase.

“We could’ve just put it in the elevator, let it go on its own and wait upstairs for it to arrive,” Steve contemplates on the fifth floor.

“Wow, how nice of you to say that _now_ ,” Bucky whines, “you couldn’t have thought of that a little earlier?”

“How do you even get to complain, with me carrying all of the weight?”

“Shut up,” Bucky just answers with a groan, dragging the heavy mattress the last few steps up. They leave a trail of thrown down objects through the living room and into the bedroom, where Steve puts the old, way too soft mattress under the bed, arranges the new one in the bed frame to then drop backward on it.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “this is awful. You’re going to sleep so good on it.”

“I hope so,” Bucky answers, leaning against his wardrobe, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’m trusting you with this shit.”

“I am glad you chose to confide in me. Hey, since you’re still standing, can you bring the laptop from the kitchen?”

Bucky can, and he also gets a blanket from the sofa and both dogs to carry snacks for him, since he doesn’t have any hands free. Together all four lie down on the bed (after Steve complaining about Sunshine getting used to being on Bucky’s bed so much that he demands this privilege at Steve’s home now, to which Bucky just answers that he doesn’t understand how he can not let his dog sleep in his bed and that it’s pretty much his own fault) and watch the first few episodes of _Suits_ that Bucky instructed Steve to download since there is still no Wi-Fi in his apartment. He went on a lookout for shows that don’t include heavy violence, blood and gore and so on, and in a list of safe shows watch, he found _Suits_. His attention span is short and Steve has to stop and explain what the hell they are talking about every thirty minutes, most of the law related subjects Bucky doesn’t really understand, but all in all, he really likes the show.

“Don’t you think there is like… this crazy tension between Harvey and Mike?” he asks fifteen minutes into the fourth episode. He’s lost the subject once again, so he concentrated on the interaction between the two main characters.

“What kind of tension are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, romantic, sexual, whatever way you want to interpret it, you can’t deny that there is this _immense_ tension.”

Steve chuckles and slowly sways his head from right to left. “Maybe but.. I dunno, Buck, don’t you think you’re projecting?”

“Ex _cuse_ me,” he exclaims, his face growing hot, “maybe _you_ are projecting.”

“I mean,” Steve says with a grin, “I definitely am, but the question was if you are.”

“Go ten seconds back please, I don’t understand a thing they are talking about.”

“Way to avoid the subject,” Steve laughs, but does it anyway, putting an arm around Bucky, pulls him to his side, making his head drop onto Steve’s shoulders.

Once again his inconsistent and fucked up sleep schedule makes him fall asleep mid-episode, and so it happens to progress into the first night that they sleep together in Bucky’s bed.

He wakes up when something touches his back - something warm and heavy, breathing against his body and it only takes two seconds until he has turned around, flipped open the knife that lies hidden in the bed frame, and pressed it to hot, bare skin.

Just a tiny movement of his wrist, and it’ll slide under flesh and between bones.

It takes another ten seconds of choppy breaths, adrenaline rushing through his veins and his eyes to adjust to complete darkness around him, until realization hits in hard. It’s _Steve_. Who else should it have been?

Of course it’s Steve.

He almost stabbed him.

The blonde giant oven is still asleep, his torso rises and falls in a calming, regular rhythm, and the knife finds its way back in between the bed frame and the mattress.  

Bucky nestles his head into the warmth of the crook of Steve’s neck, trying to stop his hands from shaking.

 ~~~

“Fuck-fuck-fuck, _no_... Oh, shit.”

It takes Bucky a moment to orientate himself. The sun shines through the bedroom window and right into his face. Clenching his lids together, his fingers rub over his sensitive eyes. He feels like he slept for ages.

Another string of swears comes from the kitchen, ending in a frustrated “Jesus Christ!” Something drops to the ground with a clatter, and a very, _very_ irritated sigh follows.

“You okay, Steve?” he asks, voice scratchy.

“I’m fine,” his favorite blonde answers, “I’m making breakfast. Or at least I’m trying.”

Bucky smiles as he smells burned toast. “Doesn’t seem too successful.”

“I might’ve broken the handle of one of your pans.”

“Ah, well, it’s okay,” Bucky laughs, then yawns and stretches his arms. “I think I’m gonna have a shower. Can I leave you alone or will you destroy all my other kitchen appliances as well?”

“Now I might,” his blonde threatens. “Be quick, I’m almost finished.”

Since the heater in his apartment still isn’t fixed (Bucky isn’t quite sure if it’s broken at all, or if the landlord just wants to get on his residents’ nerves), Bucky’s showers usually end up very short anyway, and so he only takes five minutes until he’s dressed and in the kitchen, where Steve managed to make not only a mess but also a delicious looking breakfast. They eat sitting on the counters because they’re both lazy and don’t want to walk the five steps to the small table (that barely fits two plates and coffees anyway). They talk about their plans for the week; Steve has to work twice as much since parts of the teaching staff are in training for the week, and he got denied participation and is now substituting for several classes.

“I’m _so_ leaving that place,” he exclaims after telling Bucky about his dispute with personnel management, “Students are horrible, which, I can’t blame them for, the whole school is shit, but still. I put so much effort into making my classes interesting and I still get…” he lets out a frustrated sigh, “just bullshit back. It just takes all of the fun out of the job, you know?”

“Maybe some people just aren’t as enthusiastic about art as you,” Bucky contemplates, “not everybody can be.”

“I know - I just feel like, if you’re already taking my class, you gotta bring at least some sort of motivation or the decency to at least keep quiet.”

“I bet you’re that kind of teacher that collects phones at the beginning of class- ouch! Stop kicking me, you jerk!”

Steve grins into his avocado toast. “That didn’t even hurt.”

“It did.”

“Stop being a baby.”

Bucky ignores him and goes on, “So, you’ve been complaining about this for at least two months now, what’re you gonna do about it?”

“You can talk,” Steve scoffs, the grin still on his lips, “I don’t see you acting upon your whining.”

“I’m severely depressed, Steve,” he answers, licking Nutella from his index finger, “totally different situation. Mentally-ill-free-pass.”

His blonde counterpart rolls his eyes and kicks him again. “Excuses over excuses. Did you start doing some exercises?”

Bucky pulls a face and shrugs. Maybe he tried it out once. Maybe. Maybe he fell on his face with his whole weight and had to hold a bag of frozen broccoli (because he didn’t have anything else in his freezer) against his nose. Maybe. Maybe he didn’t.

“You really should.”

“Of course, Mrs. Milton.” When Steve pulls up an eyebrow, Bucky elaborates, “my therapist. That’s her name. Nicole Milton, or something like that. I never call her by her name anyway.”

“I don’t do that either,” Steve says, “feels weird.”

“You don’t do what?” Bucky nods to the hummus. “Gimme. Please.”

“Call my therapist by his first name. Or by his name at all.” Steve reaches over the corner that separates them from each other and hands him the bowl with his homemade hummus. “It feels weird.”

“You have a therapist?” Bucky asks and feels stupid. He doesn’t know anything about Steve.

“Yeah, I do. I only go there like… every four weeks or so, so it never came up.”

Bucky thinks for a few seconds, his piece of baguette hovering in mid-air. “What do you talk with him about?”

Steve chuckles. “Just life. Problems, accomplishments. Fears. How I feel, what I do. Probably similar stuff that you and your therapist talk about.”

“Ah, well,” Bucky says bitterly, “mostly I confess some horrible thing I’ve done and cry for ten to twenty minutes afterwards, but I guess - similar.”

Steve sighs, and Bucky wants to bang his head against the next surface. He really shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t let his anger out on Steve, he doesn’t deserve that. So he quickly mumbles “sorry”, and Steve throws him a soft smile.

“It’s okay,” he answers, “I just hate seeing you hurt or hearing about it. I wish there was a way I could take your pain.”

Bucky can’t help a mutual smile forming on his own lips. “You could give me another shoulder massage, that would help with my back pain, for a start.”

It just somehow happened, that Steve’s gentle fingertips found their way onto Bucky’s shoulders; they had been watching some sort of documentary about art history - Steve had added so much interesting info that Bucky was actually invested in listening and held his neck in such a weird position, that it had started hurting. Subconsciously he had rubbed the hurting muscles, and a hand magically appeared on it. “Let me,” Steve had said, and Bucky’s stomach filled with sweetness. Of course he had let him, had to almost sit in Steve’s lap (not that he minded) and then got massaged for what were at least twenty minutes.

Their physical closeness has been growing exponentially since the day in the last week of April when they were in the museum, at first slowly, with hand-holding casually progressing into hugging as a greeting and a goodbye, and suddenly they sat on the sofa with their thighs touching and Steve’s hand on Bucky’s waist, and then in the second week of May it wasn’t weird at all when Bucky had rested his head on Steve’s legs as they were describing their fondest childhood memories to each other.

Steve described making pancakes on weekday mornings with his mom, or getting a bloody knee patched up, a PBJ sandwich as consolation - not with real peanut butter but cashew-cream instead, because Steve is allergic. He told of getting his first set of watercolors (and a really expensive one too) from his mom for his eighth birthday. He remembered painting in the kitchen at dawn.

Bucky described planting flowers with his mom in the garden, because it’s one of the only things he can still remember vividly from his childhood. The garden full of colors and different scents; every garden plot had a different set of plants to offer, with fascinating shapes and textures - Bucky could occupy himself with nature for hours. Long enough so Becca got bored inside and came to play with him.

“I could indeed do that,” Steve yanks him out of his thoughts, “but you’re so far away.” He halfheartedly stretches out his arm and does a grabbing motion, making Bucky chuckle.

“You’re stupid. You _look_ stupid.”

“Watch your mouth,” Steve answers, his own mouth full of the avocado bagel he’s eating.

“Can you at least swallow?” Bucky complains and Steve instantly starts snorting, pulling his face into an ugly grimace.

“Oh, we’re at third base already?”

Bucky doesn’t get it for the next five seconds, but then his cheeks light up (as if old Bucky didn’t have  _much_ worse thoughts) and he averts his eyes from still half-snorting, half-laughing Steve and onto his piece of baguette with hummus. “Wow, what a joke. You think you’re _so_ fucking funny, don’t you?”

“Aw, c’mon, Buck,” Steve replies, sounding like he has genuine trouble with breathing, “t’was inviting!”

“How mature. How old are you again?”

“Fifteen, with the desire to get arrested - still waiting for the handcuffs,” he just fires back, throwing a piece of apple stem in Bucky’s general direction.

He has no idea what to answer to that, but gladly gets saved by his phone starting to buzz and threatening to fall down the kitchen counter.

“Good morning, Wins,” he greets his sister after taking a brief look on the display.

“Mornin’. My birthday is next Saturday. Are you coming? You still haven’t answered my text.”

He has been thinking about it, even talked with his therapist about whether it’s a good idea to go to a party full of teenagers without boundaries or inhibitions. “I don’t know, Winnie,” he says with a sigh, “how many people are gonna be there?”

“A couple,” she responds vaguely, “like, maybe thirty? More?”

That gets a groan out of him, and a concerned look from Steve.

“Mom and Dad aren’t though,” she adds hastily, “we have the house all to ourselves! Well, except Becca. Becca is there to make sure nobody pukes on Grandma Grumpy’s couch.” Grandma Grumpy is their dad’s mother, who Bucky and his sisters have never seen smile just once, hence the name. Whenever she used to come around, she’d find the tiniest thing to be upset about, no matter how perfectly the house was cleaned, how well the kids were behaving, or how good the food was - Grandma Grumpy found something to be grumpy about. She’s almost ninety-seven now and lives in a nursing home with her second husband, so she doesn’t visit them anymore. She still finds something to complain about whenever they visit her, though.

“Wouldn’t exactly be a loss,” Bucky can’t stop himself from saying. The couch is really ugly. “I still don’t know, Wins. Don’t take it personally, okay?”

“No, of course not, I’m just trying to find a way to convince you. You can bring your dog. And your boyfriend. Or Sam.”

“He’s not-”

“Yeah, sure,” Winnie laughs. “Bring him anyway, if it makes you more comfortable.”

“He’s pretty old,” Bucky answers with a smile, peeking at Steve through the corner of his eyes, “Sam too. Sure you want to invite a bunch of half-dead, boring senior citizens?”

“Are you talking about me?” Steve tosses in, “I’m not old.”

“Yes, you are,” Bucky grins, now throwing him a quick glance, his stomach dropping sweetly at the sight of a big pout.

“I’m not old,” Steve insists, “I’m only turning thirty-six. That’s not old.”

“Sounds pretty damn old to me.”

“You’re not that much younger, you ass-”

“Almost ten years!”

“C’mon, it’s _nine._ ”

“See. You’re old. A goddamn grandpa.”

“I’m going to throw something at you.”

“Can’t wait to see you try, gramps. Hey, stop it!”

His tiny teenage sister clears her throat. “Are you two finished?”

“Yes, sorry, Wins.” Bucky dodges another piece of apple stem getting thrown at him.

“You’re like a freaking old married couple. Remind me why you aren’t together again?”

“Shut up, Winifred,” he hisses. _Another_ piece of apple flies his way, now it’s actually a full half, hitting the ground with a thud and one of the dogs immediately eats it. Bucky trusts Steve that he knows if dogs are allowed to eat apples and doesn’t launch himself off the counter to wrestle it out of the dog’s mouth like he would usually do was he alone with Lucy.

“So, I don’t care how old he is,” she goes on happily, “Bring him if it makes you more comfortable. I want you to be there for my eighteenth birthday, alright?”

“I’ll try, okay?”

And he really tries - he texts Natasha to go and buy some new clothes with him so Winnie doesn’t have to be ashamed of him, asks if Steve will accompany him on Saturday (“of course, Bucky, I’d love to!”), and then starts mentally and emotionally preparing for his tiny sister’s birthday party. They don’t do much the rest of the day, after breakfast, they migrate back into bed and watch movies the whole day.

In the evening Steve orders burgers and fries and chicken nuggets and when the delivery guy arrives Steve answers the door because Bucky isn’t in the mood for talking to strangers. They eat in bed, drip barbecue sauce on Bucky’s sheets and let a sitcom run in the background of their conversation about life lessons and stupid teenage mistakes.

They get separately ready for bed, because Bucky’s bathroom is only big enough for one person to comfortably move around in, and when Steve lies down, facing him in the dark, he smells like Bucky’s toothpaste, making him long after having this every night.

“I gotta go to work tomorrow,” Steve whispers into the space between them. “I don’t feel like leaving at all.”

“You can come back,” Bucky suggests, also whispering, but then overthinks it immediately. “Or I can come to your place afterward. You know- we’ve been camping in here for a while now.”

In the darkness it’s hard to see Steve’s face, the window is behind him, so it gets hidden by shadows. “I don’t mind camping in here with you.”

“Even if we’re doing not really anything?”

“Even if we’re not doing anything,” he echoes. The sheets rustle as he moves his hand under the pillow. “As long as we’re doing it together.”

“Ugh,” Bucky makes and can’t help laughing. “Corny.” But he feels all warm inside when he remembers thinking the same a few weeks back. It’s nice to know a feeling or thought reciprocated.

“Sorry,” Steve answers, and Bucky can tell from his voice that he is smiling, “I’m a sap.”

“Don’t apologize for it. It’s-” Bucky halts his sentence, thinking of a fitting word.

“Corny,” his blonde repeats and laughs softly. “Yes, you already said that.”

Bucky has to resist touching his face. He wants to feel the way Steve is laughing on his skin, how he gets laugh lines on the outer edge of his eyes. “Not solely corny,” Bucky ponders. “It’s, _ugh_... nice. Kinda.”

“Nice?” Now Steve laughs a little louder, his minty breath hitting Bucky’s face. “You charm me, Buck.”

It was Sam that had brought attention to it when they were having a few beers while watching baseball. The conversation had involuntarily (at least from Bucky’s side) turned to Steve - Sam asked questions that were mostly innocent, but Bucky couldn’t help turning red every now and then. After vehemently denying that Steve was  _seriously_ interested in him, Sam had just looked at him with a cocked eyebrow and then shook his head. “You do realize that he has a nickname for your _nickname,_  yes?” Bucky had apparently looked clueless enough that Sam had kept on explaining, “ _'_ _Buck’,_  that’s what he calls you. Fuckin’ stupid.” The smile on his face indicated that he thought it was the exact opposite, but wasn’t going to say that out loud.

“Even though that was not my intention, I’m glad you find it charming, Stevie,” he mumbles as a response now, finally closing his eyes and accepting that he can’t really see much of his friend’s face.

“I like that,” he answers, his voice somehow changed.

“What?”

“That nickname. I like it.”

Bucky can feel his face growing hot again. “I thought I’d return the favor.”

It takes Steve a few seconds until he lets a heavy breath out with a chuckle. “Ah, well. Sorry. It was an accident at first, but now... it grew on me.” Bucky can feel him inching closer on the mattress, and again he has that strange need to touch his skin. “Don’t you like it?”

A few seconds long he thinks about it but decides that he  _does_ like it. “I do,” he pronounces his thoughts quietly, “I mean, ultimately it’s better than _Bucky._ ”

“I _like_ Bucky,” Steve counters, “ _Bucky Barnes,_ that has a very nice sound to it, you know?”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew the story behind that nickname,” he grumbles, vividly remembering the day Becca and Winnie called him Bucky the first time.

“I’m curious - tell me the story.”

He sighs unwillingly, but, does he have any other choice now? So he tells how they were in the botanical garden with his family, Winnie was 4, Becca had just turned 12 the week before, and since they were on a tour and the tour guide wasn’t really making the tour interesting for kids, and the three Barneses kids were annoying everyone, their mom gave them the task to each find plants with the funniest names. The winner wouldn’t have to do dishes for the whole week. Since Winnie wasn’t actually able to read or plagued with chores just yet, she and Becca teamed up, while Bucky was on his own. It took almost twenty minutes of running around the greenhouse until a winner was pronounced by Momma Barnes, and by that time, Winnie and Becca had found a type of orchid (then Bucky’s favorite flowers) that apparently was removed from the greenhouse for having too bad of a stench when in bloom. Originally being called _Bulbophyllum phalaenopsis_ the biologists had nicknamed it “Bucky”. Of course, to his two sisters, “Stinky Bucky” was the funniest thing _ever_ to call him. And because he loved his sisters to death, somehow the name stuck with him. Gladly they had dispensed the “stinky” and just kept calling him Bucky for so long, that it started to feel weird introducing himself as James.

Steve chuckles through the whole rest of the story when they pass the “stinky Bucky” part, and he  _aw'_ s when Bucky tells him, that even though they were and sometimes still are making fun of him with that name, he loves his sisters more than anything.

“So, that’s why,” Bucky rounds up the story. “Also, _Buck_ is closer to Buchanan, you know.”

“I’m still not over that middle name. Were your parents possibly on drugs when naming you?”

Bucky yawns and stifles a laugh with it. “Maybe. I don’t know. Apparently, my great grandfather James from mom’s side wanted someone named after him, and she couldn’t deny him that favor when she knew she would have a son. And well, dad’s grandpa was called Buchanan, and they thought, ‘let’s just name our first son after the fifteenth president of the United States!’, which someone should’ve told them, is a terrible idea. Maybe it was drugs, now that I think about it.”

“Did you know that James Buchanan was rumored to be gay?” Steve asks, and the grin in his voice is so audible that Bucky has to grin with him.

“I know that, yes. It was the first thing Becca told me when I came out to her. She thought it was really funny.”

“I like your sister.” Steve shuffles around next to him, and Bucky opens one eye to see what he’s up to. He has moved his hand and now lies on his arm with his head. It doesn’t seem like it’s too comfortable. “She’s funny. And very sweet.”

“Mh, yeah.” Bucky shrugs. “I don’t know how to talk her anymore, to be honest. She… she wrote me a really nice birthday card back in March, telling me that she misses the connection we’ve had, and that… I don’t know. I think she feels the same.”

“Not knowing how to talk to you?” Steve asks softly, and his fingers reach out to touch Bucky’s face when he nods. “You know, if you’d maybe take a little time to talk it out with her, maybe that will help.”

“Communication is key,” Bucky sighs and remembers the endless times that Steve has said this sentence to him. “I know. Maybe I should do that.” Steve’s fingers draw light patterns on his cheek while Bucky speaks. It makes his head tingle pleasantly. They stop when Bucky doesn’t elaborate, but Steve’s palm stays on Bucky’s skin.

“You remember when on your birthday I told her that I’m also a veteran and have been back a few years?”

“Yeah,” Bucky ponders, “she acted all weird.”

“She was happy,” Steve says quietly, “because she saw that I was alright, that my life went on just fine.”

“I don’t understand.” _What’s he going on about?_

“Well, she realized, that one day, you will be fine too. That she just has to give you some time.”

Bucky inhales sharply. “I didn’t notice.”

“I guessed so,” his favorite blonde answers, and his thumb runs over Bucky’s cheek. “Just talk to her. It will be fine.”

Bucky doesn’t answer, he wouldn’t know what to answer anyway, so he just sighs, and enjoys Steve’s touch.

“I’m excited to meet Winnie on Saturday,” Steve whispers after a few minutes of silence. “She seems to be a great young woman.”

“She is,” Bucky answers, and wonders about what gift he will get for her birthday. He still has four days to come up with something, buy it, and chose some nice wrapping paper.

“What are you thinking about?”

Steve asks that question more often now. Usually, Bucky’s answer will give a bigger insight into his thought process or his feelings, sometimes he will have to lie because he’s thinking about Steve and the way he looks in that moment, sometimes he answers truthfully about something trivial. Bucky wondered before why those questions are becoming more frequent. Maybe because Steve is more comfortable with asking intimate questions now, or maybe because Bucky has become more comfortable with answering them.

“Just about what to give Wins for her birthday,” he answers now. “I don’t have any ideas.”

“You can always ask her,” Steve suggests, fingers starting to draw on Bucky’s skin again. He closes his eyes into the touch. “Or… She likes weird 80’s bands, right? You could give her a CD.”

“Mh,” Bucky makes. “It’s her eighteenth birthday. I feel like it should be more of a significant gift.”

“I’m sure that whatever you give her, it’s significant enough, Buck.”

“You think?”

Steve chuckles, his fingers move to brush hair out of Bucky’s face, and he gets goosebumps. “I think that she will be happier about you being there than about any present.”

Bucky thinks about his words for a long time before he falls asleep.

 ~~~

But it happens again.

He wakes up with a heavy weight around his body, and it’s not like he can easily fight it, autonomy takes over, instincts battle better knowledge, and before Bucky can stop himself, he’s tackled the attacker onto his back, sitting on his chest with both shins pressed into his arms, one hand locked in his hair and the other with the knife on his throat.

This time Steve’s eyes are open.

They stare at each other for a solid twenty seconds until something inside Bucky starts trembling violently and Steve removes the knife from his throat, eases Bucky’s fists flat on his regularly rising and falling chest. 

Bucky crumbles, his heart and veins caulking with black, gooey liquid, his lungs drowning in it, ribcage collapsing in on itself. It’s swallowing him whole with big, hungry gulps from inside out.

Steve pulls him down into his arms, rolling them both into an entangled ball of limbs. _It’s alright,_ he whispers against his skin over and over again, _I’ve got you._ Steve’s lips touch his neck,  _Nothing can hurt you._

 ~~~

Neither of them can sleep for the rest of the night, but they stay in their embrace and Bucky finally realizes, that without him noticing, they merged, morphed into something that he hasn’t got any words for.

When the random full body shakes finally stop hours later, they have evolved from a fused dual fetal position into just lying next to each other, but never out of contact. Bucky keeps a hand on Steve’s left arm and lets their feet touch, and Steve draws invisible patterns on the exposed parts of Bucky’s skin and runs his fingers across his scalp.

“Your hair is so beautiful,” Steve says in the morning hours, they’ve been talking about everything and anything for a while now, long enough that sun has started to rise.

“You think?” he asks, pulling his eyebrows together. “I get the feeling that everyone wants me to cut it.”

“You do with your hair what _you_ want to.” His fingertips rub over Bucky’s scalp, making him close his eyes and just enjoy the feeling it causes in the small of his back. “I like it long. It’s nice to draw that way.”

When Bucky opens his eyes in confusion, Steve smiles sheepishly at him. “Wait- You're drawing my hair?”

“The face it’s attached on top of, too,” he answers.

“For real?”

“Since the day we first met in _Espresso Yourself_ ,” Steve confirms, letting his fingers run down the sides of Bucky’s temples and progressing onto his cheekbones.

“Uh... Why?”

“Have you recently looked in the mirror?”

“No, not really. I try to avoid it.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or honest.”

He can't stand his own reflection anymore. He actually despises looking at himself. Sometimes, he wishes he could forget what his face looks like. “Honest,” Bucky responds with indifference and adjusts the placement of his hip a little bit, making his feet slip in between Steve’s calves. It feels natural, now. Like they should’ve been touching like this all along.

“How do you shave?” Steve asks curiously.

“I stall it as long as I can until someone mentions how I look homeless, mostly Nat by the way, and then I just… kinda blindly navigate myself through my face. It usually ends in at least five cuts and itchy razor burns.”

Steve chuckles lightly, his fingers walking over Bucky’s stubbly jawline. “D’you want me to do it?”

“I feel like you’re already handling every other aspect of my life, probably best if I keep a few simple things to occupy myself with, since I don’t manage the rest.”

“Naw, c’mon, Buck,” Steve answers with a laugh, his hand cupping his cheek, “you know that’s not true. You’re managing just fine.”

“I almost killed you about four hours ago, that’s not really the definition of ‘just fine’.”

Steve sighs, but doesn’t object, he  _knows_ it’s true. “Do you want breakfast in bed?” His fingers keep on drawing lines on Bucky’s skin, now moving towards his neck and throat.

“If you can manage to make anything decent with the rest that’s in the fridge,” Bucky answers with a shrug. Sam hadn’t been able to go shopping with him last week, because he’s on vacation with his girlfriend, and he and Steve have used up pretty much everything Bucky had left over the last couple of days.

“D’you want me to do a quick grocery run? I’ll be back in… uh, let’s say twenty minutes.”

“You don’t need to. I can live on cheese and dry bread.”

“I'm pretty sure that _I_ can’t and that it’s not healthy for you either.”

“You have to get to work at nine.”

“Plenty of time until then.”

Bucky rolls on his back with a snort and uses his feet to pull up the covers to where he can grab it with his hands. “You do you, dude.”

Steve sits up and stretches, showing off all the muscles in his back. It almost makes Bucky’s mouth water. “I think we long passed the mark where you can still call me _dude,_ ” Steve says and gets up scratching his neck, but not looking back at Bucky as he walks out of the bedroom and into the living room. It's hard to not stare at his butt.

“I’ll call you whatever I like to,” Bucky exclaims, nuzzling into his pillow, his heart rate slightly elevated. “Crazy, for example. I don’t get how you have the energy to get up this early. It’s like… half past six or something.”

“Wanna know a secret?” it sounds from the next room.

“You also have the superpower to get up extra early? Yeah, of course, Steve, totally believable,” he calls after him.

Steve appears in the doorframe with his pair of jeans in his hands and he grins. “I was going to say I’m a hardcore morning person and usually get up at five or half-past five, but your version works too.”

“Dude,” Bucky replies after taking a few seconds to adjust to his body's reaction to Steve’s naked torso (which is his body heating up so fast it makes him sweat), “just- _no_.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Steve laughs, “you can literally settle for anything else, but _that_ I don’t feel comfortable with.”

“Bro?” Bucky gives him a full-toothed smile and pulls his knees up to his chest, his hair falling in his face, resulting in him trying to blow it away, since his arms are tucked under the sheets.

“No, not that one either,” his blondie laughs, putting on his jeans, making Bucky mourn after his perfect view on his butt.

“What about… homie?”

“I was thinking about bringing you coffee,” Steve says, pointing at Bucky accusingly, “but I better think twice. You do not deserve my affection, James Barnes.” (It’s weird, hearing his first name like that, usually, it’s reserved for his mom and Natasha who’ve both been insisting on “Bucky” being a silly name for probably fifteen years now.)

“And  _that_ you are absolutely right about, Steven Rogers,” Bucky replies. “Got me all figured out.”

Steve sighs and leans against the wooden doorway, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You could use some more self-confidence.”

“And you could use a shirt,” Bucky can’t resist joking, “or my self-confidence isn’t getting out of bed before midday.”

Steve snatches a t-shirt from somewhere off the ground, not realizing or caring that it’s Bucky’s, and leaves with only his wallet, Bucky’s backpack and a smile on his face.

Bucky calls for both dogs, who come trotting into the room with sleepy faces, Lucy takes her place on Bucky’s left without another word, Sunshine waits at the edge of the bed and throws him confused looks.

“Oh, of course,” Bucky smiles as Lucy finds the most comfortable spot next to Bucky’s hips, her head resting on his stomach. “You’re not allowed on the bed at home. Steve is horrible, isn’t he? You can come here, boy, it’s alright.” He pats on the mattress and after a few slow blinks from Lucy, Sunshine finally gets up on the bed with them, settling where Steve has been lying just minutes before.

Thinking about how much his life has changed in just four months, he closes his eyes and listens to the two dogs dozing off again.

 ___

Steve finds them all tangled up, his favorite long haired brunette buried underneath Sunshine and Lucy, texting someone with one hand, the other occupied with simultaneously petting two dogs at once. Watching them for an undisturbed moment, Steve smiles into himself and tries to remember Bucky’s relaxed face in every single detail. He might sketch it later, so it doesn't slip from his memory.

“Why are you just standing there,” Bucky suddenly raises his voice, making Steve flinch hard and almost drop Bucky’s keys.

“I was just looking at you guys.”

“Funny, and here I thought you wanted to make breakfast in bed.”

“Oh, getting demanding, are we?” Steve laughs, but turns on his heel and starts making a breakfast the way Bucky likes it, hearty, with lots of bread, chopped vegetables and different kinds of cheese that he will all try out one after the other pretending like he never had them before. It’s probably one of his favorite parts of their morning routine, watching Bucky eat and his face light up whenever he tastes something new or that he really likes. They’ve come so far regarding food, and Steve’s day always gets made when his brunette asks him to cook something. In the past twelve weeks, he’s been gaining weight, his skin isn’t pale and semi-translucent anymore, he’s still a little thin, but he’s healthy. Most importantly: he eats with a smile on his face and doesn’t skip an entire day of meals anymore.

Steve uses the only cutting board Bucky owns to transport everything from the kitchen into the bedroom, where Bucky hasn’t moved a single inch, the only thing that’s changed is that he’s swapped hands and is holding his phone high into the air.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks amused, sitting down in the free middle of the bed, making Sunshine turn his head from Bucky’s chest and start wagging his tail.

“Still texting Nat. My arm started falling asleep.” He frowns as his phone vibrates in his hand. “The fuck…?” he mutters, eyes narrowing.

“What’s up?” Steve might never get tired of watching Bucky’s facial expressions. It’s so nice to finally see him react in a way that he can understand.

“She’s gratuitously texting me in Cyrillic for parts, which she _knows_ that I can’t read, and it’s fucking annoying to constantly copy and paste her texts into Google Translate when she could just use a normal roman alphabet.”

“Is Natasha from Russia?” Steve asks and offers Bucky a plate with vegetables he likes.

“Yep,” he answers, “Her name is actually Natalia, but she has some kind of aversion to it. Dunno why.” He finally sits up with a groan, making the dogs' paws and heads slide down from his chest and give him sulky looks, and he accepts the plate with a smile. “Thanks, Steve.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies with a mutual smile, and they eat in silence for a minute.

With a thinly sliced stick of carrot in his mouth, Bucky scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You mind if I leave Nat a voice message?”

“Not at all,” Steve answers.

“Cool. Will only take a few seconds.” And then Bucky starts rambling in Russian. For some reason, Steve’s body decides to react to it in the weirdest way. Apparently, Steve’s body thinks that this is something  _hot._ Apparently, Steve’s brain has to agree with it.

Bucky ends his ramble with something that sounds like a curse word, but is probably nothing close to it, lets his phone drop on his bed and finally devotes his full attention to the food. “Sorry. Nat is being horrible sometimes.” When he looks up from the tray of food and sees Steve’s face, he makes a surprised expression. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Steve has no idea how he's looking at Bucky, he just hopes that he’s not drooling. He’s definitely going to hell for his thoughts.

" _Why_ are you looking at me like that?!” the brunette beauty asks again, this time with a couple of grapes in his mouth, using his foot to kick Steve in the shin.

“You speak Russian,” Steve manages to get out, his stare still not leaving Bucky’s figure.

“Yeah. I do.” Then he shrugs. “And a few other languages too.”

“What else?”

“Uh, well, Spanish, a little bit. I can make small talk and know how to order food and rent a room and stuff like that. Portuguese, moderately, if I’m honest. A teeny tiny bit greek that I picked up in the army from another soldier. My school French would definitely make any person from France puke, but hey, I try my best. And well… then I’m fluent in Russian, Japanese and German, but my German isn’t top of the game anymore. I would be interested in another romance language, but… I dunno.”

Steve is blown away. Totally blown away by this intricate and complicated human being that his heart has decided to invest in.

“You’re _still_ looking at me that way,” Bucky complains with a laugh, “what the hell, Steve?”

“I’m just- You’re just so fascinating,” he answers. “Everyday I learn something about you that I wouldn’t have expected.”

For some reason that Steve doesn’t understand, Bucky blushes at hearing that, his eyes fly to his fingers and he smiles self consciously. “I dunno. Kinda forgot about it, to be honest. I loved learning languages.” Then he sighs. “Old Bucky did.”

“You should try it again.” Steve wants to make Bucky give a sample sentence in every language he knows, listen to his voice change, his expression and posture flow with it. He wants to watch his mouth form words that he can’t and won’t ever understand, wants to make him translate everything he says, then listen to it again. Repeat his favorite words and decide that he will never make them sound equally as beautiful.

“I’m new Bucky, remember?”

Steve sighs and Bucky’s body language says “I know that disappoints you”. Steve isn’t disappointed. Not at all, he just hates hearing about how bad Bucky thinks of himself. Apparently, “new” Bucky doesn’t get to do the things “old” Bucky did. Apparently, “new” Bucky doesn’t get to enjoy these things, because he's a different person. Apparently, this is how Bucky thinks it works. 

But Steve reminds himself, recovery doesn’t come easily or fast. Recovery takes time. Recovery is full of ups and downs. Steve looks forward to the day that Bucky has a healthy self-view and appreciates himself for who he is.

“You can be whoever you want to. You can _do_ whatever you want to, Buck.”

Bucky doesn’t answer, maybe he’s thinking, maybe he doesn’t agree, maybe he just doesn’t know what to say. They don’t talk about it further.

They more or less eat breakfast in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, the silence. It rarely is with Bucky, anyway. Steve takes a shower after breakfast, blow dries his hair while Bucky lies on his bed, still in his pajamas, still texting Natasha. Then Steve leaves for work with Sunshine. In the train he asks Bucky via text to make something for lunch and bring it over when they meet at his place. Bucky replies that he can’t promise anything, but will try. _That’s good enough,_  Steve thinks with a smile.

Bucky spends the rest of the week at Steve’s place. After two glasses of wine on Thursday evening, Bucky confesses that he feels more at home in this house than anywhere else. Steve smiles and takes his hand over the table. Bucky lets him and smiles back.

Things have changed. Undeniably.

Of course, they are changing constantly. Change and progress are natural, _of course._  But sometimes, a specific moment happens and Steve knows that something is different.

The knife incident has changed a few things.

Steve is finally more aware of Bucky’s abilities. For a long time he’s seen him as not exactly weak - but weakened. It’s not like he didn’t believe the brunette when he told him of being violent, being scared of hurting or maybe even killing someone. It was just hard to imagine Bucky that way. Not because he seemed incapable of violence or defending himself, more because… Bucky was in such a bad shape when he met him. So passive. Letting the world just pass by. Steve was sure that if in any case it came down to him and the younger man, Steve would be able to hold him down. Now he isn’t so sure.

They now both know that they’re something different. It’s up to Bucky to eventually decide what they are, and what they will be, but right now, they have passed the mark where they’re just friends. Steve would call it dating but he doesn’t know if that’s the way that Bucky would describe it. 

They sleep in his bed now, and every night, Steve somehow ends up with his chest pressed against Bucky’s back. Bucky doesn’t attack him anymore. Maybe because he doesn’t have a supply of knives in this house, maybe because he feels more at home here.

At the end of the week, the cut that the blade has caused in the outer layer of his skin has already healed.

 ___

Bucky wakes up on Saturday and the first thing that he says is “I feel sick”.

“Like you need to puke?” Steve asks and goes through everything they’ve eaten the day before. They had a normal, usual breakfast, the way Bucky likes it. For lunch, Steve had made a little snack and smoothies, but in the evening they had homemade pizza with lots of cheese while they had their usual movie evening. Maybe the fat made Bucky’s stomach upset.

“I don’t know,” Bucky answers and groans, awkwardly trying to roll from his side on his back, his movements restricted by the sofa he fell asleep on, squeezing his eyes shut. “Maybe.”

Steve gets out of his armchair. “I’m getting you a trash can.”

“I can go to the toilet,” Bucky says but doesn’t move. His face is a little pale, now that Steve looks at him more thoroughly.

“Do you think it was the pizza?” Steve asks as he hurries into the kitchen, emptying out the paper trashcan onto the floor.

“No, honestly…” Bucky groans again, and when Steve turns he can see him pushing the blanket he had wrapped around his body down to his feet. “No, I think it might be because of Wins’ party tonight.”

They do breathing exercises together, but Bucky only feels better after two hours and one dry heaving incident. Steve makes herbal tea and suggests that Bucky should take a bath to relax, while Steve prepares some nice breakfast for him. Bucky accepts the offer and comes back down after twenty minutes with his hair wrapped in a towel, in Steve’s favorite sweatpants and shirt. He looks relaxed, even smiles when he sees the food laid out on the table, his plate already filled with a sandwich and a sliced apple.

“You made it look so nice today,” Bucky comments as he sits down and takes the tea that Steve offers him, “like this is a scene out of some stupid romantic movie.”

“Oh, so you’re saying I’m usually not romantic?” Steve jokes, and reaches for the bagels, fresh out of the oven.

“Fishing for compliments?” Bucky replies and takes a bite of his sandwich, a soft moan leaving his lips. Steve’s throat goes dry and he almost rolls his eyes at himself. _Stupid_. “I’ll give you that - your food’s always amazing.”

They eat talking about an event at an art gallery just two blocks from his house. Steve is happy he has somehow infected Bucky with, or at least re-sparked the interest for art in him. Differences are nice and all, but shared interests are even nicer. Steve pulls up the gallery’s website to show his favorite brunette some paintings, and Bucky suggests going to the evening the event is planned for. “You should dress nice for this,” Steve tells him, “it’s a fancy event.”

“I know I usually look like a hobo,” Bucky sighs and pops a cherry tomato into his mouth.

“You look great. I’m just saying.”

“That I usually don’t dress nice,” Bucky completes with a raised eyebrow.

“That's what you're saying. I'm saying: You look  _great,_ ” Steve stresses and nudges his foot against Bucky’s under the table. He gets a careful nudge back.

“Didn’t your mama teach you not to lie?” the younger man asks, shoving pieces of cucumber in his mouth. It’s unfair, how good Bucky looks while eating. The casual things. They throw Steve off his feet every time.

Steve smiles and puts his hand over Bucky’s lying next to his plate. “I am being honest. You look good. You’re good looking. Handsome.”

The free hand that was holding Bucky’s cup with tea, lets go of the handle now and hides the increasing blush on his face. “ _Horrible_. You’re a horrible person.” He intertwines their fingers and peeks out from under his hand to smile at Steve. “Just horrible.”

“I know,” Steve replies softly and can’t help sighing contently, “downright awful.”

It’s getting out of hand, his little crush.

 ___

Bucky’s childhood home lies amongst a sea of flowers. Steve could probably ask him about a few of them, get out the names, but his brunette is more occupied with keeping his anxiety on a leash. Loud music can be heard from inside, a few people screaming and laughing somewhere in the backyard. Lucy licks Bucky’s fingers while they’re waiting for someone to open the door. Bucky decided on letting her wear the vest this evening, so no one will distract her too much in case she has to do her job. Very evidently, she has to. Steve can’t do anything but rub Bucky’s back and ask him if he’s holding up.

“I think I’m spacing out,” he can say before Becca opens the door and encloses her brother in her arms.

Steve never experienced dissociation, but Bucky explained it this way: it’s like walking through a dream, hearing through cotton, seeing through mist. Something feels off, like he’s watching a tv show. It’s not always bad, Bucky had explained, sometimes it makes stressful situations easier. Bearable. “It’s like my brain just ‘ _nope_ ’s right out of my body”, he said once. Depersonalisation is worse, apparently. Where he will forget totally what he was doing, where he was, where he is, who he is. “I'll feel like I’m in someone else’s body.” Bucky had sighed at Steve’s expression but still went on. “You know, when you’re drunk and you look at your hands or your face and they seem kinda funny?” Just _way_ _worse_ , according to Bucky. Steve doesn’t want to swap places with Bucky, he has to be honest about that. Bucky’s mental illnesses and their synergy are extremely complex, weaving into each other in ways that Steve doesn’t understand, and probably will never understand. (Sometimes, just sometimes, Steve pities him. He doesn’t want to, of course, but sometimes it just happens. Steve will look at Bucky, and feel this deep, sad compassion. He wishes Bucky wouldn’t have to suffer that much.) The spacing out rarely happens with Steve, which is why it still takes him by surprise, despite the note he has on his phone, made when he discussed with Bucky how he can help, or make him “come back” to reality.

Becca leads them through a corridor into an open living room, where a few teenagers are hanging out with drinks, chatting and laughing. Steve can’t spot Winnie anywhere (Bucky has described her to him). The Barneses house is just as Steve has expected. Decorations are kitschy, somewhat old-fashioned, pictures of the three siblings hang on the walls everywhere. Bucky’s eyes are glassy as he looks through the room like he took some kind of drugs. Steve feels bad for convincing Bucky to go tonight. Maybe it wasn't a good idea.

Becca brings them drinks and something to eat and then has to leave them for five minutes alone because apparently someone is already starting to feel nauseous. Steve rubs Bucky’s shoulders and tries to ground his senses with him. He makes him aware of the hair elastic he is keeping at his wrist for times like this, and Bucky looks at him confused for a second, before the edges of his lips just ever so slightly quirk upward, and he starts snapping it against his skin. He doesn’t get out of his dissociative state until Winnie comes to meet them fifteen minutes later, sits right between Bucky and Steve and clasps her arms around both of them, saying how happy she is that they are here. She compliments Steve’s biceps and he has to laugh. Bucky smiles. When she asks questions, it takes Bucky less and less time to answer them.

Bucky vanishes with Winnie somewhere outside after talking for a while, and Steve takes his courage in both hands to ask Becca what he’s been meaning to ask her for almost two months now, but never had found the right time to.

“Hey, Becca, what are Bucky’s favorite flowers?”

She throws him a perplexed look for a second and then starts grinning triumphantly. “So you _are_ dating, I knew it!”

Steve shakes his head with a laugh and buries his hands in his jeans pockets out of slight embarrassment. “No-no, we aren’t. Not… officially. I mean, I like Bucky. A lot. I think that is kind of obvious.”

Becca makes a grimace and fake coughs but then starts laughing. “Well, if you wanted to make it any _more_ obvious, you would have to start hitting people with signs saying ‘I have a crush on Bucky’.”

“I know,” Steve replies. It’s kind of embarrassing. Not “kind of”, if he’s honest. It’s embarrassing. Period.

“He doesn’t get it, though? He’s always been a little oblivious.” Becca sips from her glass of orange juice, looking as if she is remembering something. Steve is guessing that is is something from their teenage years.

“No, no,” Steve begins, “no, I don’t think- I don’t think he  _hasn’t_ noticed. I-” Steve thinks about how to phrase this. “I just want to let him know I’m serious. He likes flowers, so that’s why I was thinking of getting him a pretty bouquet.”

“I don’t actually know what his favorite flowers are.” Becca frowns and shrugs. “I can ask our mom. She will know for sure. She can also tell you something about the language of flowers.”

“The language-...”

“See, there is this very romantic, obscure system of hidden messages behind each flower and it differentiates in what arrangement you will put them together, what colors the flowers are, in what context you give them to a person. Mom taught Bucky this almost as a second language- I’m not joking! Stop grinning this stupidly, she really did. I would say, just get him some stupid red roses- but, you know, my brother once got a girl a very beautiful arrangement for their four-month anniversary, it meant something along the lines of uhh.. ‘Suck my dick tonight and I will love you forever’ or some stupid bullshit- stop _laughing!_ No, but really, it's kinda really important to him. He will read into whatever flowers you give him. You can impress him by actually telling him something with them.” She pulls out her phone and starts scrolling through her contacts. “Lemme call our mom, and I’ll ask for you.” Steve can’t even protest, Mrs. Barnes picks up the phone after maybe 2 seconds. “Hi, mom! - No, no, don’t worry, everything’s alright. - Yes, Winnie is great, she’s having fun. - _No,_  don’t worry. I’m making sure nobody pukes on Grandma’s couch. I’ve got it under control. I have a question. - Yes. - Uh, what are Bucky’s favorite flowers?”

Steve looks out the window, where he can see Bucky and his sister Winnie talking to a group of girls, presumably her friends.

“Mh, yes, yes, I can remember that,” Becca babbles happily next to Steve. “No- mom, _Jesus._  It’s a friend of Bucky’s. - Yes, I guess so.” A high pitched screech close to how Steve imagines a Pterodactylus sounded like follows from Becca’s phone, and she holds it away from her ear with a pained expression. “Yes, yes, _okay!_ I’ll hand him over.” With an annoyed eye roll, Becca gives him her phone and says “sorry in advance”, before hopping over to the fridge and hiding behind its doors.

“Good evening, Mrs. Barnes,” Steve says slightly overwhelmed, his stomach suddenly a bundle of nerves.

“What message do you want to convey with your flowers?” she asks without an introduction or greeting.

“Uh…” Steve’s mind blanks. _Perfect. Good timing, brain._

“Do you want to make a statement, or do you want to tell him about your feelings?”

“I guess… um… both?”

“Then, what do you feel?”

Steve’s face grows hot. _Shit._  It was so easy to ignore it when nobody addressed this particular subject. His feelings towards Bucky. _Jesus Christ._  Steve is falling for him, more or less slowly, bit by bit. Not long, and Steve will actually say that he is in love. _Affection._

He wants to let Bucky know that - _yes,_  he is serious. That he won’t just dump him after a few months, won’t just leave him behind. That their connection goes deeper than that. That he doesn’t expect anything from Bucky, but Bucky can ask everything from him, if he wants to. _Loyalty. Devotion._

How captivating Bucky is. All his little quirks and weird habits, all of those things he learns about him every day, that he appreciates them greatly. That they make him so unbelievably beautiful. _Fascination. Admiration._

While he is telling a shorter version of his thoughts, Mrs. Barnes mumbles something that Steve can’t understand, he supposes it’s different names of flowers. It sounds botanical, at least. “We can’t make a nice arrangement out of those flowers. They do not go well together. Here is my suggestion. I will send Becca a list of the names of all of these flowers, it’s easier than trying to remember all of them. Whenever you feel like expressing one of those specific feelings, let a good florist make a bouquet revolving solely around one or two of the flowers. For now, I think you should start with Cabbage Roses.”

“Cabbage Roses,” Steve repeats, “okay.”

“They are James’ favorite. Cabbages Roses are usually seen as an Ambassador of Love. Do you love my son?”

Too many questions about his feelings towards Bucky. _Too many questions._ He feels like he’s in a therapy session. “I-uh- I’m…” he starts stammering hopelessly, his brain now going fifty miles an hour. “I- I think I am starting to...to fall for him, Ma’am.”

“As happy as that makes me, it might play into his insecurities,” Mrs. Barnes ponders and taps her fingers against a surface close to the microphone. “It is so hard for him to be open about his feelings.”

“I know,” Steve answers softly. “I don’t want to overwhelm him.”

“Mh,” makes Mrs. Barnes.

“I want to- I want to show him that we have time. We don’t have to rush anything. I will wait for him. However long it may take.” He knows that Becca is eavesdropping on the conversation at the other end of the kitchen, even though she pretends as if the contents of the fridge are the most interesting things she’s ever seen.

“Patience,” Mrs. Barnes concludes approvingly. “Yes. Ox-eye daisies. That might work out. I have both of those in the garden. If you want- I am just simply offering, no need to accept, that I can make an arrangement for you. For James.”

Steve can feel his throat tightening like a freaking boa constrictor. “I- Ma’am, I’m- I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything. You make my boy happy. I know that. It’s thanks to you, that I have my son back.”

Steve wants to say that _t_ _hat is all his own work,_ there is no need to pull Steve into this, Bucky got better by  _himself._  A better social life just played a big role in that. Steve’s contribution to that is marginal. Steve wants to tell her off for underestimating her son, for making it seem like he can only function with Steve, but then he realizes that this isn’t meant as a diminishment of Bucky’s accomplishments. It’s simply thankfulness. She’s thanking him.

Steve figures he can live with that.

He’s giving Becca her phone back, just when Bucky enters the kitchen.

“Who’ve you been talking to?” he wants to know.

“Just the boyfriend,” Becca answers for Steve and wiggles the hand she’s holding her phone in, “You wanna talk to him? I can call him back.”

“No, I’m fine,” Bucky answers, rolling his eyes so hard, that they might’ve as well vanished in his skull. He takes Steve’s hand and pulls him into the living room again, talking about how he met Winnie’s girlfriend. When Steve looks over his shoulder, Becca gives him a conspiratorial smile and winks. Steve grins and winks back.

 ___

He meets Mrs. Barnes exactly five days later, on Wednesday. Bucky has stayed at his apartment after his therapy session the day before, saying there was a lot of emotional baggage that he had to “unpack”, and he was only coming over to Steve’s place after his dog walking appointment at 3 pm. Steve had called Mrs. Barnes on Tuesday, to check if he could come over the next day to pick up the flowers, and so now here he is. In front of the Barneses family home, Sunshine obediently waiting behind him, Steve’s stomach going up in nervous butterflies. He is so damn nervous, he feels almost like the night before his senior prom. He might actually spontaneously combust. It’s not just meeting Bucky’s mom, that’s not the problem, well - at least not entirely. Meeting Bucky’s mom is exciting, of course, and yes, Steve wants to leave a good impression so he made sure he is clean shaven and wearing a decent long sleeved shirt with the pants that Sharon always says make him look like a boring adult, and that Sunshine had a bath just the evening before. Steve wants to leave a _damn well_ impression.

The other part of the problem is actually  _giving_ Bucky the flowers. How will he react?

In Steve’s mind, there are a million ways it can go wrong, and only a handful how it could go right, and his brain paints the positive ones much more unlikely than they actually are. Realizing that is at least something.

He still hasn’t rung the bell.

_God, get over yourself, Steve, you’re almost 36, not 16._

Sunshine is pretty unimpressed by the fidgeting that Steve is currently doing with the hem of his sleeve (his hand hovering over the doorbell), and ogles after the occasional bee making its way through the fields of flowers around them.

“Don’t try to eat the bees, Sunshine,” Steve lectures him, “you know that won’t end well.”

His dog throws him a slow glance, almost seeming to say  _get over your own problems first._  Sunshine is right, though. Steve should get over his own problems first.

“Steven?” a female voice sounds from behind them, and both Steve and his dog turn to see who’s talking to him. It’s a small, squishy round woman, about fifty-five maybe, with her long hair up in a ponytail, carrying a woven basket full of flowers in the one hand, and a pruner in the gloved other. Self-evidently, this must be Bucky’s mom.

“Yes,” he answers, and as she smiles, he just has to smile back. She comes over, sets down her basket (Sunshine starts sniffing it immediately), and then hugs Steve so hard that he thinks she might actually be damaging his intestines. She introduces herself and takes him through the garden and inside, offers him and the dog something to drink, and goes talking about how great it is to finally meet him. And it is! Steve’s nervousness eases off him as soon as he’s inside and can carelessly answer questions about his job, and his “passion for art” and whatnot, while Mrs. Barnes makes herself some tea. Steve is well aware that it is some sort of aptitude test, but he is pretty sure he passed it in the first five minutes with flying colors. Mrs. Barnes takes him outside again and gives him a nostalgic tour through Bucky’s flowery childhood until they finally arrive at the garden plot that’s “specially reserved for James’ flowers”. The Cabbage Roses are a lot prettier than he has imagined (it’s the name, _okay?_ What should you expect from a flower named after a vegetable?) - they are a soft, pastel pink (Steve is sure that would’ve caused a problem with any of his ex-boyfriends), with lots of big, fringed petals that layer around each other, similar the way they would with a normal rose. Steve falls in love with it instantly. He can understand why it is Bucky’s favorite - it is stunningly beautiful. Mrs. Barnes wants to know how big the arrangement should be while she’s carefully cutting the flowers, putting them into her basket where they join white daisies, the _Patience_ part of the bouquet. Steve asks for her opinion, and Mrs. Barnes laughs softly, saying that if he’s going for it, he should  _really_ go for it.

“James loves these flowers,” Mrs. Barnes explains with a gentle smile, “he will appreciate the gesture greatly.” That’s what Steve hopes for.

He leaves with a big pink, green and white bouquet of flowers, a flutter in his heart. He gets lots of smiles on the subway.

 ___

The minutes before Bucky arrives seem to stretch out so slowly, they almost feel like hours. Bucky had texted him that he’s almost there, and Steve had not only freaked out himself, but also his dog, and probably everyone within a distance of a mile, with his frustrated, bellowing shouts of curse words when he dropped his coffee on his jeans (the ones that make Tony instantly wolf whistle when he sees Steve wearing them) and then he changed in a time span of probably twenty seconds, scared that Bucky would arrive when Steve wasn’t ready.

Now time seems to drag on like slow dripping honey from a spoon.

Steve is trying to keep his hands busy by sketching the flowers, but for some weird, unexplainable reason, his fingers can’t stop shaking. It’s not like he never got a boyfriend flowers before. Hell, he’s bought wickedly expensive tickets to a concert for a band he wasn’t entirely sure his girlfriend at that time would like, and he wasn’t this nervous. At least here he knows that Bucky  _loves_ flowers. Especially since he picked them out with his mom.

Finally, the doorbell rings. Sunshine’s eyes perk up, and he looks at Steve expectantly.

_Pull yourself together, Steven. Nothing to be so nervous about. It’s just Bucky._

It’s just Bucky.

When he opens the door, Bucky just steps inside without giving Steve his usual greeting, and Steve can’t help but think, _fuck, I chose a horrible day for this. He’s stressed out._  

Bucky kicks off his shoes in the hallway, unclasps the leash from Lucy’s collar, takes the vest off, and hangs both on the coat hooks that also hold Sunshine’s leash and vest while Steve closes the door behind him.

“I am _beyond_ pissed,” Bucky starts venting as soon as his dog is out of the small hallway, “I am - Jesus Christ, Steve, I am so _mad_.”

“What happened?” Steve wants to know, leaning against a wall with his back, watching while Bucky untangles himself from his jeans jacket and the backpack straps clasped over his chest.

“I- ugh,” Bucky lets out a frustrated groan and his head falls in the back of his neck, “can you believe that someone didn’t want to let me and Lucy into a shop earlier?”

“Well, it happens to me more often than I would like,” Steve confirms and pulls his mouth into a thin line. “Sorry that it did for you.”

Bucky throws him a half annoyed look and starts stomping into the kitchen, while he goes on ranting. Steve follows him slowly, his eyes briefly glancing at the dining table, where the flowers are placed. He hasn’t noticed them yet. “I was- listen, I was being _nice,_ okay? I was being fucking _polite,_ said ‘Sir, you are legally obliged to let me and my service dog inside’, but guess what, he didn’t give a flying  _fuck_. Called me some pretty nasty slurs, that I’m not gonna repeat because it made me fucking furious, and I can guess that it will do the same for you.” Steve watches Bucky pour himself a glass of water and then lean against the kitchen counter. “So eventually I had to leave. And I was just trying to buy some chips for our movie evening, _Christ_.”

“We’re having a movie evening?” Steve asks with a small smile, his heart still not calmed down, no, it’s probably worse since Bucky entered the kitchen. The flowers seem pompous now. He should’ve started with something smaller. Maybe he shouldn't have gotten him flowers at all. Maybe this was a terrible idea.

“Yes. I decided on that while I was walking the little shit of a dog. You know. The terrier, that thinks it’s five times bigger than it actually is.”

“You could’ve texted me. I still have chips here,” Steve says.

“But then I wouldn’t have encountered that asshole of an employee, and I wouldn’t have written a very angry yelp-review on the way here. What about other people, you know- that actually need their service dog permanently, like,  _really_ need it. They can’t go in there because of that damn fucker thinking he’s entitled to have an  _opinion_ on this? Mother _f_ _ucker_. I almost wished death upon him,” Bucky swears, taking another big gulp from his glass of water. “Then I thought better and wished my PTSD on him.”

Steve can’t help the smile forming on his lips, even though it’s a self-depreciating joke, Bucky is right. His PTSD is horrible. No sweet mouthing it. “I’m glad that Lucy is no attack dog,” he comments.

“ _Pfff_ ,” Bucky makes and rolls his eyes. “I’m not just gonna  _sic_ my dog on somebody, Steven. Poor dog can’t do anything about my temper, or the motherfucker’s _entitlement_ to discriminate against disabled people!”

“You'd rather just knife him,” Steve jokes, but Bucky narrows his eyes dangerously.

“Should’ve done that. Too bad. Will remember it for next time.” Bucky puts down his glass on the counter and leans over to open one of the fridge doors. “Anything left over from lunch? I haven’t had anything to eat today.”

“I made you a salad,” Steve answers, his brows furrowing. “What happened to your breakfast?”

Bucky sighs, picks up the bowl of salad out of the fridge and starts rummaging through the drawers for cutlery. “I actually slept until… quarter past one? I don’t know how that happened. So I had to hurry to get ready for my appointment.”

“Two hours seems like plenty of time,” Steve says, and Bucky makes his way out of the kitchen, a straight beeline towards the dining table. Steve suddenly feels very sick.

“You know, I still have to walk there.”

“What about taking the subway?” he grits out between his teeth.

Bucky plummets himself on one of the chairs and starts digging into the salad before the bowl has even touched the surface of Steve’s handmade dining table. “No, not without you,” Bucky says with his mouth full, “can’t stand the noises, you know that, and I can only bear it when-” and then he stops.

He noticed them.

The hand that was about to shovel another fork full of salad into his mouth, lets it sink back into the bowl, and his face goes  _completely_ uninterpretable.

_Oh, shit._

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._

Steve fucked it up. He did it.

He made it awkward.

He got carried away, made too much of an effort. He interpreted too much into all of their touches. All of those moments. 

He’s still in the kitchen and now he can’t move a damn inch forward, he’s frozen in place, can only watch the catastrophe playing itself out in front of his eyes.

Bucky stares at the flowers for at least half a minute, before he swallows the bite of salad he still had in his mouth, clears his throat, and then slowly turns to Steve, one hand on the back of his chair, the other balled up into a fist on the table.

“That’s-...” He breathes in, and now his face shows confusion, “that’s a bouquet of flowers.” He pauses, his glance dancing across the kitchen. “You never have flowers here.” His eyes meet Steve’s, and for a moment, Steve is completely terrified. “They’re Cabbage Roses.”

“I know,” Steve gets out.

“My... favorite flowers.”

“I know.”

Bucky’s face gets even more confused, and he looks from Steve back to the flowers, and then back to Steve again. “They’re for…”

“You. Yes,” Steve confirms, and he sounds much more pulled together than he actually is.

“You-” Bucky inhales sharply, “you got flowers. My favorite flowers.”

“Yes.”

“For me.”

“Yes, for you.”

“How do you know what my favorite flowers are?”

“I asked your mom,” Steve answers truthfully. “Well, first Becca, and then your mom.”

The hand that had made a fist, relaxes and runs through Bucky’s hair as he looks at the flowers again. “You got me flowers,” he repeats softly.

“I thought you might like it,” says Steve weakly.

With his fingers still in his hair, Bucky turns to Steve again, his expression now completely bewildered. “You got me my favorite flowers. In an arrangement. You got me Cabbage Roses with Ox-Eye Daisies.”

“Yes,” Steve can only repeat.

“Do you know that they-” Bucky stops himself.

“Have a meaning? Yes.”

Bucky looks back at the flowers, and the hand combing his hair reaches out to touch pink petals.

Finally, _finally,_ Steve gets the reaction he was hoping to see. Bucky smiles.

He turns, his eyes glowing, shining, reflecting the light and emitting it onto Steve. Wide, pure, and completely content, he smiles.

“I never got flowers before.”

 

Steve is in love with him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, i'm not dead. i finished this chapter a few months back, around the end of august. Then my mental breakdown happened and... well. I'm on track now and dropped out of university! i was doing my bachelor in psychology, if you were wondering, but i changed to service dog training now! i am so so so happy with my decision and extremely excited to start soon! enough about me, let's talk about my favorite boys.  
> it finally happened, even if dear bucky might've not realized yet, we finally made a right turn at self-discovery avenue and are now on relationship lane! and it only needed an almost-murder, fun times!  
> also can you believe nobody got our flower boy flowers before????? give flowers to boys!!! it makes them equally as happy as girls! ([cabbage roses with daisies](https://typeset-beta.imgix.net/rehost%2F2016%2F9%2F13%2Fa7dd3b7d-0f8b-4ef2-9989-118de41347eb.jpg) are actually super pretty. A nice change from usual red roses)  
> confession: i actually don't know thaaaaaat much about the language of flowers, i tried to do as much research as possible and get the flower meanings as accurate as i can, but there might be mistakes.  
> i also hope i got the depersonalization and dissociation kinda right, i just recently had an episode like that in class, and it was the freakiest thing ever, i seriously felt like someone had slipped me drugs. uncool shit. anyway.  
> as always, if you notice any mistakes let me know so i can improve my english!  
> (i also finally got a new computer, and now the ao3 editor doesn't crash on me anymore. thank god.)


	7. epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _ATTENTION! TW: in this chapter, there are two mentions/implications of a past suicide attempt/suicidal ideations._**  
>   
>  And again, a disclaimer about something that Bucky says in this chapter. In his opinion/experience humans are eventually compelled to want to have sex in a relationship - I of course, as always, do not believe this myself.
> 
> (For this chapter I'd like to rec ["Crosses" by José González](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4N4sPl4DSQ), a very, very beautiful song about depression.)

 

In the first week of June, Steve is busy. The whole week. End terms are coming soon, and he has given out projects to students that weren’t doing that well in his class as a chance to boost their grades. Bucky, in contrast, has been bored beyond words, the whole Saturday (rainy and somewhat cold, at least not warm enough to go outside without a long sleeved shirt) he did nothing except watching movies from the fifties with mild interest, eat something for lunch, go out with Lucy and text with Steve about how bored he is. So when Becca calls late in the evening, he picks up in a matter of seconds, hoping she will tell him the newest gossip or invite him out. But she’s crying on the other end, babbling too fast about something with her boyfriend.

“Slow down, Becs,” he urges her. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t reach any of my girlfriends, so I didn’t know who to call except you- I think he’s cheating on me!”

Bucky mutes the tv and puts Becca on speaker. “What makes you think that?”

“He- he hasn’t answered his phone all day and-” Her voice cracks and she’s sobbing again.

“Becca,” he says softly, “do you want to come over? I have nachos and chocolate. We can watch movies and talk. If you want to.”

“Really?” she sniffles and lets out another soft sob. “That would be so amazing.”

“Of course. Come over.”

They stay on the phone until Becca is sitting in her car, then he hangs up to clean his apartment at least a bit. Steve texts him, just when he finishes putting away clean dishes.

**_What are you up to this evening?_ **

Bucky sighs. Seems like Steve made some space on his schedule. **_becca’s comin over, some stuff with her bf goin on_ **

**_Aw, shucks_** , Steve texts back, **_just finished all my work for today, thought we could finally see each other. Say hello for me._ **

**_will do. more work tmrw?_ **

**_Yeah. I was going to ask anyway, would you mind taking Sunshine out for a long walk tomorrow? I don’t think I can find time for even that._ **

Bucky furrows his brows and scratches his chin. That doesn’t sound nice. Steve never skips his walks with Sunshine. **_i can just take him over for the whole day if that’s ok with u_ **

**_Would be a huge help. Pick him up at 8 am? :-)_ **

Before Bucky can send an affirmative answer, Becca knocks on his door, all runny makeup and messy hair. She throws herself into his arms and tells him all about how her boyfriend has gotten cozy with one of his colleagues from work, a girl that’s actually one of Becca’s best friends, and how they were apparently all meeting up and didn’t invite her, and it’s all very dramatic. After his sister’s outburst, they watch old movies and eat chocolate and Bucky tries to give his advice on the possibly cheating boyfriend.

“I really missed talking about stuff like this with you,” Becca admits when they’ve finished the second bag of nachos that Bucky usually keeps for Steve. “I feel like we’re in high school again.”

“We used to a lot,” Bucky recalls and smiles, “talk about boys. Smoke behind the garden shed.”

“Yeah,” Becca laughs and wipes away a few of her last tears. “That was fun.” She puts on a knowing smile and wiggles her eyebrows. “Speaking of boys, how’s Steve?”

“Fine, I guess. He has a lot of work right now.” Bucky shrugs.

“So how’s that going for you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and shrugs again.

“Do you miss him?”

It’s stupid. But he really does. It’s been only six days since the last time they saw each other, but Bucky does miss him. Terribly. “Kinda,” he mumbles. Especially at night. It’s weird now, sleeping in his bed alone. He misses the heat of Steve’s furnace body radiating onto him. Talking about deep shit and sharing insecurities and fears. Touching his skin. His laugh and his smile. His voice.

Becca makes a sound of admiration and hugs him hard. “That’s so cute. You two in general.”

He can’t help but groan and mutter “stop it, Becs”, even though he doesn’t actually want her to stop hugging him.

“Winnie, me, and Mom have a betting pool on how long you’re gonna take to finally get together. I’m saying two more months, Mom is saying three, and Winnie has her money on three to four weeks.”

“You guys are the worst,” he murmurs, already blushing. “I dunno, though. I told this Wins before, but- I don’t know if I’m ready for a… relationship.”

“I was actually surprised to hear you aren’t already together,” Becca answers, “you know, when he asked what your favorite flowers are. I would’ve guessed that you’d climb him like a tree.”

Bucky breathes in deeply and gathers all of his courage. Steve said he should talk to Becca. Just talk and it would all be fine. Maybe starting off with this boys and relationship stuff is the easiest way to get back into talking with her. “I haven’t actually… seen or been with anybody. Since uh… 2012- I think.”

“C’mon,” Becca snickers and rolls her eyes, “you’re kidding me. _You?_ ”

Well, of course, what should Becca know? He had rarely talked with her when he was on active duty. To her knowledge, Bucky was still the same, cocky man that screwed every guy with a heartbeat.

So he shakes his head, says, “Nah, not kidding. It just- I dunno. Never happened. In the first year in the army maybe a few times, but, after that…” For some weird reason, his cheeks are heating up. What’s so embarrassing about this? It’s not like he never spoke with Becca about his sex life before.

“Why not?” Becca asks, supporting her head with her palm. Somehow, she looks highly interested in what he has to say next.

“It was frowned upon. Being gay. Kinda taboo.” And apart from that, being in an active war zone does things to your priorities. Fucking is not really one of them.

She frowns like she’s surprised. “You never… You never said that, when we were on the phone.”

“What, like I was gonna whine about how I couldn’t bang any of the hot guys because I’d get beat up and demoted? Becs.”

“I didn’t know,” she says softly and reaches out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry.”

And because he’s an asshole, he shrugs her hand off.

“Are you angry?” his sister asks, and he can’t look at her. She sounds sad. She doesn’t know what she did wrong. She can’t know that she didn’t do anything wrong. That it’s Bucky’s fault that he is this way. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he sighs, “You shouldn’t be. You’re just trying to... understand.”

“And you’re just trying to explain while remembering what you went through. It must be hard. I can’t imagine.” Her voice is cracking, right at the ‘can’t’. “I wish- I could. I wish I could somehow relate. But I _can’t._ I don’t know what you went through and what happened.”

“It’s okay, Becca,” he mumbles, quickly glancing at her, just to check if she’s crying. He doesn’t want her to cry. But she isn’t, so he looks away again. “You don’t need to know. Or understand.”

“Maybe I want to?”

He can’t help letting out an angry snort. “Believe me, sister, you don’t.”

“Let me decide what I want and what not,” she answers quietly. “I lived through my own share of fairly horrible things. You don’t get to say what I can take and what not.”

He gets inconsiderate when he’s angry. It’s not good.

“I feel guilty,” she goes on when Bucky doesn’t answer. “Because I never stopped you. You know, realization only set it when we said goodbye. Before that, I don’t think I ever really thought about how you were going to a real war. That there was a possibility of you not coming back.”

“I didn’t,” Bucky mumbles. Because the Bucky that she's speaking of didn’t come back. Old Bucky died the moment the bomb went off and his squad fell quiet.

“Not the same, no.” The tv in the background switches from credits of the movie they were watching to commercials.

“Wasn’t one of my greatest ideas, huh?”

“I mean-” Becca sighs, “no, of course not. But if it hadn’t been for Dad pushing you… I don’t know. I don’t know if you’d even gotten the idea in the first place. If we all hadn’t been so proud - I don’t know if you’d went through with it.”

Probably not. But pinning the blame onto his dad or anyone else doesn’t make him feel any better. He’s already been over this with his therapist plenty of times.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends on what you want to know,” Bucky replies, leaning back on the couch, still not meeting her eyes.

“When you… when you got shot.” It’s easy to know what she’s onto. “Mom got a call. She was sure that you’d died.” Becca leans back herself, and then her head falls onto Bucky’s shoulder. “She woke me, crying, told me what happened, that you were in critical condition. It was only later, that she told me that you were being sent home when you were safe for travel.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“They said you got right into the line of fire and that it was a miracle you didn’t get riddled with bullets.”

And still, he doesn’t say anything.

“Did you… did you want to die that day, Bucky?”

_Sgt. Barnes, are you trying to get yourself killed?!_

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Becca whispers and puts her hand on his. “I’m glad you didn’t. I’m glad you’re still here.”

God damn, how he hates this fucking crying.

 ~~~

He wakes up because his phone rings. Still half asleep, he grabs blindly to where he usually keeps it on the mattress. Becca groans, starting to stir in her sleep.

“Yeah?” 

“Bucky, it’s Steve. Sorry to wake you. You wanted to pick up Sunshine, remember?”

Suddenly Bucky is wide awake, sitting up straight. “Oh my god. Steve. I’m so sorry. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Becca, wake up.” He shakes Becca’s shoulder, her head buried under her cushion. He smiles at the sight of that. _Funny, how she still does that._

“It’s okay, don’t worry. He’s just starting to get on my nerves a little,” Steve smiles, wide, so you can hear it. “No need to hurry.”

“No-no, I promised to be there, what’s the time?”

“Nine twenty,” Steve laughs, “don’t worry. It’s fine.”

“Oh my god. Becca, wake the hell up. You need to drive me to Steve’s.” He shakes Becca again, and she lets out another groan. “ _C'_ _moooon,_ Becs.”

“I need coffee,” she grunts from underneath her cushion.

“Can do,” Steve says from the phone and chuckles. “Tell her that.”

“Steve’ll make you coffee. Get up now, please.” When she still doesn’t move, he mumbles, “okay, more drastic measures then,” and pulls away her blanket, which makes her jump up to her knees and glare at him angrily.

“What the hell, James.”

“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes, okay?” Bucky says addressed to Steve and barely dodges the pillow that Becca hits him with.

“Sounds good,” Steve can still reply before the phone gets knocked out of Bucky’s hand with another cushion aimed at him.

Bucky hops out of bed with a squeal and sprints into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. “I’m sorry, Becca, really!” he shouts, a dull _thump_ hitting the door, probably Bucky’s own pillow.

“Traitor!” she shouts back. “You know I hate that!”

Fifteen minutes later, they aren’t exactly at Steve’s house yet, but they’re in Becca’s car, Lucy in the back seat poking her head out of the open window.

“You know, if you don’t want him,” Becca says with a devilish grin, “I will gladly take him. Since my boyfriend is cheating on me.”

“I do want him!” Bucky protests immediately before he can even realize what he’s saying.

“Just not as your boyfriend?” his sister asks, that grin still curling around her lips.

“Shut your mouth. I meant-”

“You want him, I heard you the first time,” she laughs, and Bucky’s face heats up. “I know you do. But you know, take your time. He waited this long, I think he will even longer.”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to lose him,” Bucky sighs. “I’m- I’m scared a relationship might change _us._ ”

“Of course it will,” Becca smiles. “Of course, Bucky. But change isn’t bad.”

Bucky shrugs.

“And the change from friendship to a relationship isn’t bad at all,” Becca tries to convince him, patting his shoulder. “Really, it isn’t. Don’t you think it would be nice waking up to him in the morning and… I dunno, have breakfast together and touch each other constantly?”

Heat rises up his cheeks. “Not like we aren’t doing that already,” he mumbles.

“Oh my god. You’re so goddamn oblivious.”

“Shut _up._ ” He points to the street Steve lives in. “Turn left there.”

A minute later they arrive, Becca parks in front of Steve’s garage, and as soon as Bucky opens the door, Lucy jumps over his legs, out of the car and over Steve’s garden fence, excitedly running around the house, presumably to look for Sunshine.

“Even your dog is in love with his, c’mon, Bucky,” his sister teases as she watches Lucy take off, “just make it official already.”

Shoving her shoulder with a curse word, he gets out of the car, still in his sweatpants and sleeping shirt, hair in a messy bun, Becca only missing the matching hairstyle. She had stayed over spontaneously, and since she didn’t bring any clothes she lent his.

Lucy comes around the back of the house again, jumping up the stairs to Steve’s front door with her tail wagging. The door gets opened, and Lucy is greeted by a swoosh of yellow. Steve is in the doorframe, sporting a dark blue pullover, black sweatpants and -

A beard.

If Bucky wouldn’t have his face constantly under immense control, his jaw would’ve dropped right now.

Becca greets Steve, but Bucky is still stuck with his hand on the car door handle.

_He looks hot._

And for a second he can‘t comprehend what‘s happening. Of course, he long knew that he‘s attracted to Steve, that he‘s a fucking sixth world wonder and shines as bright as the sun, that he‘s all muscles and strength and has those beautiful, captivating eyes, and a laugh that makes his skin tingle, and that whenever he‘s in his arms all his troubles seem a little further away.

Of course, Bucky knew that.

But he never realized how much he wants to bury his hands in the short blond hair and kiss him until he‘s short of breath, his heart racing, his skin burning.

Apparently, Bucky now also wants beard burns.

Steve gives him a wave as Becca hugs him and demands to know where her promised coffee is.

“In the kitchen,” Steve tells her with a laugh and leans against the doorframe when Bucky’s sister vanishes inside the house.

“What are you doing just standing there?” Steve asks, arms crossed in front of his chest, a lazy smile on his lips. With the beard, it looks even more handsome than usual.

And Bucky almost has to laugh. Yes, _what_ is he doing, exactly?

“What’s that on your face?” he counters the question.

“Oh,” the smile turns into a grin, “I was just so busy this week. Didn’t have time to shave.” With his thumb, he points behind him. “C’mon. I made you coffee and something to eat.”

But for some reason, Bucky can’t fucking move. He can only stare. And he still wants to kiss him.

He could do that. Just walk over there, and kiss him. It’s not like he doesn’t know that Steve has for some weird, unexplainable reason a crush on him and would definitely not resent it if Bucky kissed him (the flowers made that pretty clear). It’s not like he doesn’t know that they have passed a specific mark in their friendship and that the moment to doubt it all is well and truly over. But that doesn’t mean that Bucky can’t still have his doubts.

Because, if he’d just do that now, go over there and kiss him like his life depends on it (which it feels like it does for a small fraction of a second), then he really is past the point of return. He won‘t be able to take it back, to say “oops, well, let’s just forget that ever happened”, if he makes that decision, he has to think about the consequences. (A very small voice in his head whispers something about Bucky interpreting the situation completely wrong and that Steve, in fact, does not like him that way and it’s just all his imagination, but Bucky ignores it for the moment.) Steve might want to finally clear this up, whatever they are, make it a steady relationship, and Bucky is not sure he can do that. Actually, he’s almost 100% sure he can’t do that, just because he will not allow himself to trust someone so completely, expose all of himself, tell about his horrible mistake.

Maybe he’s also scared of how that would give Steve an excuse to be even more touchy and affectionate with him.

And it’s not like he doesn’t like it when Steve searches for physical contact, at first he just simply didn’t mind that much, and as soft hands on his arm, squeezing his shoulder got even softer and turned into petting his hair and fingers drawing patterns on his skin, he found himself leaning into the touch.

But then there’s another part he’s scared of.

Eventually, just because humans are that way, Steve will want to extend that physical closeness.

And about that - Bucky is 100% sure that he can’t. He can’t even look in the mirror, avoids looking at any part of himself when he’s in the shower, god, he hates his body - how should he let anyone else see it? Undress him? Touch the skin hates so much with the intention of making him feel good? Yeah, not happening.

To be fairly honest, no matter how attractive Steve is, Bucky just doesn’t want to sleep with him - more precisely, Bucky doesn’t want to sleep with _anyone._

Old Bucky would die in a fit of laughter now. Becca would probably too if he told her that the lack of his sex life is mostly his own fault, since he just … doesn’t get in the mood for that anymore.

Not that it’s anything to be ashamed of, as his therapist told him. Lack of libido in trauma patients with severe depression is not uncommon, apparently. Maybe she just said that to comfort him, Bucky doesn’t know, but the facts are that Bucky hasn’t jerked off in probably over 15 months, and weirdly, he does not miss it. His sex drive just went flaccid, quite literally.

“C’mon,” Steve pulls him out of his thoughts, “I can also throw in some cookies, if that’s more of an incentive.”

Bucky mumbles something about how he hopes he isn’t meaning dog cookies like last time and walks around the stupidly perfect white picket fence, and up the steps.

When he arrives at the door and tries to push past Steve, he catches him by the arm.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answers, but doesn’t look at him. The door frame isn’t wide, they’re in such close proximity, that if Bucky’d turn his head, he’d be in the same breathing space as Steve.

“Are _we_ okay?”

But that does make his eyes snap up. Steve’s eyebrows are slightly furrowed, and his eyes show concern. The beard accentuates all the harsh and blunt features of Steve’s face; the crook of his nose and the stoic chin and prominent cheekbones and the strong, straight eyebrows. It looks awfully good, his face.

“Why would we not?” Bucky retorts slowly, his eyes searching the bright blue ones on the opposite of him.

“I don’t know.” He sighs, his breath hits Bucky’s face. He smells like toothpaste and it makes Bucky think of a morning spent in half-lights and tight embraces. He yearns after it, for a few seconds. He misses him. “You’re not avoiding me, are you?”

Bucky falters. “What? No - why?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says again, but something in his voice tells Bucky that he _does_ know.

“I’m not,” Bucky reassures him. Why on earth would Steve think he’s avoiding him?

“Okay.”

“I missed you,” he admits without wanting to. “Kinda.”

Steve chuckles, and his hand drops from Bucky’s arm. “Yeah, I _kinda_ missed you too.”

For a few seconds, there’s silence between them, and they just look at each other, Steve’s minty breath on Bucky’s skin.

If Bucky doesn’t pull away and get his damn coffee, he’s going to do something _really_ stupid.

So he pulls away, whistles for his dog, and joins Becca in the kitchen. She’s sitting on one of the counters, made herself right at home with the cookies that were promised to Bucky and looks around the room. Lucy comes running into the house, her tail wagging, Sunshine at her tail, snapping at her playfully. They’ve missed each other too.

Becca pulls up one of her eyebrows and grins.

Bucky has to roll his eyes because he knows exactly what she’s thinking.

“Nice place, Steve,” she says directed at somewhere behind Bucky, “I like the style.”

“Thanks,” he answers, “it used to be my parents' house before my dad died.”

Bucky didn’t know that. How did he not know that?

His sister asks something about paintings and Bucky doesn’t listen because he is wondering how after four months, he still doesn’t know these kinds of things about Steve. It seems like Steve knows about everything about Bucky, but Bucky never bothers to ask about Steve. He feels horrible, realizing that. He's so fucking _selfish._

“Why did you buy it back?” he asks completely out of context over Becca’s question as he turns around. Because at least he knows that Steve and his mother lived in a small apartment together, and they didn’t have much. At least he knows that.

Becca pauses in the middle of her own question as if she notices that this is important to Bucky.

Steve throws him a questioning look, but doesn’t ask; instead, he answers, “I just felt like I had to when I saw it for sale. Mostly sentiment, I guess.” He laughs softly, and his eyes advert to the ground. “I thought my mom would like that. If I’d live in her old house. I thought she’d like being here with me.” He turns to look somewhere in the living room, but Bucky knows exactly where he is looking. On a table next to a bookshelf, there is a vase. Bucky never paid it much attention, but right next to the vase is a picture frame. He realizes that it’s not a vase.

“Steve,” Becca says suddenly, “can I use your bathroom?”

“Sure. Down the hallway, on the right.”

She puts her mug on the counter (Bucky’s favorite mug, by the way, but she wouldn’t know that), and vanishes in the hallway, closing the door to the kitchen behind her.

“I didn’t know,” Bucky says now.

“I never told you,” Steve shrugs, leaning against a counter on the opposite to Bucky. “I don’t know. It never came up.”

So many things never come up. The army. The therapist. His mom. His _past._ Maybe, Steve just doesn’t want to talk about it. Which is fair, Bucky guesses. He also doesn’t tell him everything.

“It seems important,” he says, nevertheless.

“Not really,” his blonde answers.

Bucky thinks for a moment, then asks, “are you religious?”

“Kinda. A little.” He smiles. “I don’t really know if I believe in God, but I do believe that there is a higher being and that things happen for a reason.”

“I didn’t know,” Bucky says again. “I feel so stupid.”

“It’s okay, you don’t need to feel stupid about it.” Steve gifts him with a wide, honest smile. Again, a few seconds of silence pass and Bucky doesn’t know what to say. “Are you? Religious?”

“No,” Bucky answers with a shrug. “My parents are, Russian Orthodox. Becca and I left the church when we turned eighteen.”

“Wait, are you from Russia too? Is that why you’re fluent?”

Bucky shakes his head with a smile. “No. I was born in Indiana. Mom’s relatives are from Russia, though. She taught us.”

Now it’s Steve’s turn to say “I didn’t know,” and maybe that’s just something they have to accept. That they aren’t going to know everything about each other.

All of a sudden there is an uncomfortable silence. They are so rare, that Bucky is surprised it feels this way.

He clears his throat. “So, uh. About Sunshine. Should I bring him back in the evening?”

“Sunshine, yeah. Uhm, sure.” Steve scratches his chin and puts his other hand in his pocket. If Bucky didn’t know better, he’d say he’s trying to hide nervousness. “Do you want to stay over, after?” He averts his eyes from Bucky with a smile. “My bed is weirdly empty, without you.”

Bucky has to laugh, and he nods. “Yeah, mine too.”

“So, do you want to?”

“Yeah, sure.”

And again, they don’t say anything else. He feels the strong need to just fucking ignore all consequences and close the distance of five feet between them and kiss him. But he isn’t old Bucky. He takes the second, untouched cup of coffee and sips from it. It’s good coffee, black and bitter, and just for a second, it takes his mind off the stupid kissing thing.

“By the way,” Steve says, pushing away from the counter, and goes over to the kitchen table where papers and essays from his students are lying, “I got a job interview. For an arts college.”

“Oh, uh, that sounds great. When?”

“In two weeks,” he mumbles and sorts through the pages scattered on dark wood. “Better salary, longer hours, though. And further away.”

“Is that bad?”

“Not necessarily,” Steve answers.

Bucky sighs. He thinks about how at some point he has to work again, too. He should talk about that with his therapist. When and for what jobs he should apply. If he can ever be a functioning human being again.

“How long have you been a teacher for?” Bucky asks, because he doesn’t know that either.

“Uh- lemme think…” Steve halts in his movement. “Three years, I think.”

“What did you do before?”

“A Bachelor, for teaching. Well, and I was busy with my recovery,” Steve looks up. “Why are you asking?”

“Just because… I dunno. It’s been a year. I should be okay, by now, shouldn’t I?”

“There is no expiration date on the process of healing, Bucky.” He smiles. “Give yourself some time.”

When Becca comes back, Sunshine is ready to go, Steve packed his favorite treats and toys like an overprotective helicopter dad, and they drive back to Bucky’s apartment, change clothes, and then go on a walk with the two dogs. They eat breakfast at an outside table of a diner, and this time Bucky doesn’t mind all of the people or the noise. This time, it’s okay. This time he can talk with his sister lightly about her job, her friends, how their parents are doing. And Bucky feels comfortable and content. It’s a good day.

“Dad asks about you, sometimes,” Becca tells him with her mouth full of waffle, “wants to see you again.”

Bucky shrugs and takes a bite of the sandwich he ordered. (Yes, _he_ ordered, without problems and without avoiding to look at the waiter.) Lucy at his feet perks her head up, and gives him a look. It’s not an anxiety alert, but she noticed the change in his heart rate.

“Don’t you?” she asks and raises her eyebrows.

Again, he shrugs.

“I mean- I know he was mean. I know what he said, but, I think he’s sorry now.”

“Damage’s already done,” Bucky mutters, drinks from his coffee and pats Lucy’s head when she nudges his leg. There’s the alert. “Let’s not talk about it.” Becca is about to retort something, but then sighs, shuts her mouth and keeps on eating. It’s okay.

Bucky sleeps over at Steve’s from Sunday to Monday (nothing particularly exciting happens; Lucy shreds one of Sunshine’s toys and the dogs get in a small fight over it) and goes home when Steve leaves for work. Becca calls him, and says that she’s stupid, because her boyfriend and her friends planned a surprise engagement party. Bucky gives his congratulations and they talk for a while. On Tuesday, Steve suggests that he can drive him to his therapist appointment with his bike, and pick him up again. And even though that seems exhilarating and dangerously fun, Bucky declines, decides to take his dog for a long walk and leaves an hour early for therapy. Air is starting to become heavy, and Bucky is thinking about taking his sweater off and buying some shorts. He listens to music and doesn’t give a single care about the people around him. It’s a good day. 

Until Mrs. Milton gives him a prescription for various medications.

“Why do I need those?” he asks, his mood immediately dropping. “I’m much better.”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Milton had smiles, and keeps on explaining, “which is why I think now would be a very good time to combine medication with our success in therapy. Usually, antidepressants have a tendency to give you side effects in the first two to four weeks, they can range from mood swings, more intense dreams and insomnia to increase of appetite, drop in libido and suicidal ideations. It was important to stabilize you first, and give you strategies to work with.”

“So, you’re saying, I got better so I can get worse again?” Bucky asks dryly, detesting the idea of having to take medication.

“It will last four weeks at most. It will not be permanent. Most importantly, the medication will improve your overall mood, lessen your avolition, increase your appetite, and decrease a lot of the symptoms you still have.”

Bucky sighs and claims that he doesn’t like it.

“It’s your decision.” Mrs. Milton pulls up her eyebrows. “You don’t need to take medication. I would like you to try, nevertheless. Will you try?”

Inhaling deeply, he shrugs but then nods. “I guess.”

He leaves ten minutes after that, walks to the next pharmacy that Mrs. Milton had described the way to him, thinking about the possibility of falling into this deep depression again. He doesn’t like the idea of getting worse, possibly lying days in a row in bed, wearing the same fucking clothes for a week because he just can‘t bring himself to walk into the basement to do the laundry. Not seeing his friends for months. Pushing everyone away.

Half an hour after leaving his therapist’s office, he is standing in front of the pharmacy, and he still doesn’t like the idea. He _hates_ the idea. He’s not doing perfect. Of course not. He’s no Steve. (Although even Steve has his bad days, apparently. They’re just unlikely and never happen with Bucky around.) But Bucky is doing just well enough so that he can remain somewhat of a routine.

And now those stupid pills are supposed to ruin all of that?

Mrs. Milton said that soon his insurance company will want proof of him getting medication, so she can still certify him as unfit for work. She thinks it’s stupid herself, but that’s how it works. Bucky can’t lose the sick-pay.

He sighs, looks down at Lucy, she has sat down next to his feet because he hasn’t been moving for a few minutes now. “What should I do, huh?” he asks her. “Should I really try taking fuckin’ pills?”

Lucy’s ears twitch, but she doesn’t look up at him.

Maybe he should just get this over with.

“I don’t wanna be that depressed again,” he mumbles quietly and watches the employees in the pharmacy talk to each other.

Lucy now gives him a glance, her head slightly tilted to the side.

“Imagine you’d have to actually drag me out of bed regularly again. You can’t want that either, huh?” He kneels down next to her, rubbing her head. “We’re having much more fun right now. Imagine you’d have to give up at least two of our daily walks because I just can’t get up.” He sighs again. “You wouldn’t see Sunshine as often. And I wouldn’t see Steve as often.”

With a soft-eyed look, Lucy lays one of her paws on his thigh and her head on his shoulder. He has to smile at the gesture.

“Yeah, that would be horrible.”

Giving her two full body pets, he pulls out his phone and calls Steve’s number, because that’s what he always does when he faces a hard decision. Steve will give him his own personal wisdom, reassure him and Bucky’s decision making will instantly be easier.

He answers after only five seconds. “Bucky, what’s up?”

“I got a medication prescription,” Bucky says, getting right to the topic because he doesn’t need to mess around with stupid small talk. They don’t do or need that sort of stuff. “For antidepressants and something for sleeping. And some fucking  _sedatives_ for the panic attacks. I don’t like it.”

“Why’s that?” Steve asks, Bucky can hear birds and the rustling of wind in trees in the background. He must be on a walk with Sunshine.

“My therapist said the antidepressants will make me depressed again. What fucking use is that?”

“Mh,” Steve makes. “They _can_ make you depressed, that’s true. They don’t have to. And it doesn’t stay long. Just for the time that your body needs to react to the chemicals.”

“Two to four weeks, she said. That’s fucking _ages._ ”

“You will get through it,” Steve says confidently, “just like you got through everything else.”

Bucky stands up and straightens his legs, they are starting to fall asleep. “I don’t like it. I don’t want to feel this hopeless again. It was horrible.”

“Would it be any assurance if I told you I would be there for you?”

Still watching the employees in the pharmacy, Bucky sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe. I seriously doubt it, though.”

“Aw, c’mon, Buck. You know that I am. Anytime.”

“She said ‘suicidal ideations’,” he recalls and ignores Steve’s statement sufficiently. If Bucky gets as bad again as he was in January, Steve will very likely not want to keep on being his friend. He won’t want to be around him. Bucky knows that. “Like, _what_ the fuck. The meds are supposed to _not_ make me want to kill myself. And one of the side effects might be suicide. What the fuck.”

“Suicidal ideations are just thoughts about suicide. Not actually committing,” Steve says. “Okay. Let’s say, worst case scenario, you get mood swings for four weeks, yeah? You can spend them at my place. If you like to. And then you don’t have to worry about not being able to get out of bed, or not eating, or not showering. Or not opening the door when someone wants to see you.”

Bucky frowns, his chest heating up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“It’s not like you haven’t been two weeks in a row with me before.” He adds, “that was just recently. In May.”

“No, I mean… the other things. You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do anything for you,” Steve says very simply, and Bucky’s stomach drops a little. He’s been saying stuff like this more frequently. It’s only slightly upsetting.

“Don’t say that,” Bucky mumbles.

“It’s true, though.”

He sighs. Looks down at Lucy, who’s watching a couple with a pug walking by. The pug seems like it’s about to start barking. And he’s right, the pug does start barking. Lucy is unfazed by it, and just watches the dog yapping and pulling on its leash. She looks up at Bucky, as to say _what a loser._ Bucky agrees. Stupid pug.

“Look, Bucky, I also took medication. When I was in way worse shape than you are now. Yes, it was hard, a challenge. But I had Peggy by my side, and it worked out. It weren’t the easiest couple of weeks, but I managed. I think you would too. And after all, it would help, eventually.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You can just buy the meds,” Steve offers, “you don’t have to actually take them. Just buy them, and think about it. Make one of your pro’s and con’s lists.”

“Won’t they look at me like I’m weird?” Bucky asks, watching an elderly woman that just walked into the pharmacy interact with one of the employees. He’s making up excuses now, and Steve knows it.

“I think there are people with weirder prescriptions coming in there every day,” Steve laughs, “laxatives, or, uh… maybe viagra. Or something against hemorrhoids. I guess a guy asking for antidepressants is nothing out of the ordinary for them.”

“I still don’t like it,” Bucky sighs. “But you convinced me. I’ll buy the meds. Doesn’t mean I’ll take them.”

“Good,” Steve says, and then whistles. “Hey, Sunshine! Will you stop doing that? Jesus.”

“What’s he done?” Bucky asks, “Did he find a puddle of mud again?”

Steve laughs. “Yes, exactly. He’s so fucking dirty. And I literally just washed him.”

“Lucy could use a bath too,” Bucky grins, looking down at his dog. “I can come over later and help you.”

“Sure,” Steve agrees, “that’d be cool. I have something for you anyway.”

“You have something for me?”

“Mh-hm. It’s a surprise though, so no point in asking what it is.”

“What if I don‘t like surprises?”

“You liked the flowers,” Steve chuckles. “C’mon, buy your meds, and get your sweet ass over here.”

_Sweet ass?_ “Yeah, uh… Sure. But I’m like… a twenty-minute walk from you anyway.”

“Your surprise isn’t going to vanish, take your time. I also still have to get home myself. Now go and get the meds. I’ll talk to you later.”

Bucky says goodbye and hangs up, slips the phone into his jeans pocket and takes his courage together. The pharmacist explains the various things Bucky has to take into consideration with his new medication, puts stickers with when and how many pills he is supposed to take on each package, and then goes on reminding him, that if any problems come up, he should make an appointment with his doctor. Also, that he should cut down alcohol, because antidepressants don’t match well with it.

Bucky hasn’t really been heavily drinking since the start of the year. He thinks about that for a second and deems it an achievement.

Then he just walks straight over to Steve’s place. It takes him ten minutes more than he’d thought, and when he arrives, he’s sweaty and thirsty, and Lucy is panting, her tongue out of her mouth. He even took her vest off so she’d not get any hotter. Maybe he should make her get a haircut, for the summer.

Steve fixes them both something to drink, and then they lie outside in the grass. The dogs get comfy under the apple tree, the two men with their faces to the cloudless sky.

“Hey,” Steve raises his voice after a long silence, “you mind if I go get my sketchbook?”

“Why would I?” Bucky asks back and smiles, sun warming his skin.

“I dunno. You need anything?” Steve gets up, and his figure casts a shadow over Bucky’s face.

“No. You’re standing in my sun.”

“Sorry, I’m leaving,” he laughs and goes inside.

When he comes back, at least ten minutes have passed, and Bucky has closed his eyes and taken off his sweatshirt because the direct sun started to get too hot. Steve sits down next to Bucky, close enough so that he can smell his cologne. Bucky thinks about how he’d like to smell it up close, with his nose on his skin. When something gets placed on Bucky’s chest, his eyes fly open.

It’s a present.

Sitting up, he shoots Steve a questioning look. “What’s this?” The wrapping paper is light green with yellow stripes.

“I told you, I got something for you.”

“Not a present.”

“I said a surprise,” Steve shrugs and sits cross-legged, so he can rest his sketchbook on his thighs. It’s starting to get tattered at the edges, it must be his most used one. “Open it.”

“I don’t like presents,” Bucky grumbles, and Steve chuckles as a response, elbowing him in the ribs.

“You like presents. You just don’t like the attention while opening them. Told me yourself. So, go on, I’m busy with drawing.” He doesn’t pull away his gaze from the pages that have a few unfinished sketches of face parts on them.

Tearing carefully on the sellotape, so he doesn’t rip the paper, Bucky opens the present. It’s a book. When he flips it to see the title, he gets surprised again.

_Romanian for complete Beginners in 12 Weeks_

  ~~~

Turns out, Bucky’s talent for learning languages hasn’t completely vanished like the rest of his interests and personality. He gets done two of the chapters in just six days, literally devours the book. Steve throws him happy glances and smiles whenever Bucky listens to the CD that came with the book and repeats sentences and words. He finds small similarities to Russian and Italian, and when he practices food items over breakfast, Steve looks so content, that Bucky has to ask what’s going on with him.

“I just enjoy listening to you speak another language,” he explains with his coffee against his lips. “And it’s nice to see that you are enjoying speaking and learning it.”

“Thanks again,” Bucky mumbles with a smile and tries to not let Steve notice that he is embarrassed again.

“You’re welcome,” Steve answers and nudges a foot against Bucky’s under the table. “Go on.”

So Bucky goes on, a little quieter this time, trying to not draw much of Steve’s attention.

That night when they get ready for bed, Bucky’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub, reading through a part of grammar he didn’t understand yet while brushing his teeth, Steve seems like he’s hiding something, playing with a loose cord from his sweatpants.

“What’s up, Stevie?” Bucky asks with a grin, toothbrush still in his mouth. “You’re fidgety.” It sounds more like _washhup shtevie, you’re fishity,_ but Steve understands him anyway.

“It’s just… that I’ve been thinking.” He leans against the sink with his backside and pushes both of his hands in the pockets of his pants, like he usually does when he tries to be casual, but is actually nervous. “If you’d maybe like to go eat dinner, some time. You know, as a date.”

Bucky can’t help but gape, foamy toothpaste dripping out of his mouth and down his chin.

Jesus, can he get more embarrassing? He closes his mouth, wipes away the toothpaste with a hand, and gets up to empty his mouth.

“As a date?” he asks and feels his stomach tensing.

“Yeah. Would you like that?”

Bucky looks up at him, his brows furrowed. Steve’s so close to him again that he can feel his body heat radiate onto him. They’re going to have to throw out the blankets tonight, or else Bucky will get a heat stroke.

“I don’t know,” he answers hesitantly, “if I can manage that. With the noises, the lights…”

“Okay,” Steve says, but it comes out almost as a whisper.

“Not that I wouldn’t like the idea,” Bucky hurries to add because Steve seems disappointed with his answer. “I would. I just don’t know if I can, mentally and physically.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain yourself.”

“I wasn’t trying to make it an excuse,” Bucky continues, but then realizes, that he is making it an excuse. So he shuts his mouth.

“It’s okay, Bucky, I understand.”

“We could have dinner here,” he suggests.

“Yeah, maybe,” Steve sighs, and Bucky knows, it’s not the same.

“I appreciate the offer,” Bucky says softly, putting a hand on Steve’s left bicep. He almost can’t help squeezing. “I really do.” Their eyes lock, and Bucky can’t say anything else because he feels like he got hit in the back with an iron bar and can’t breathe anymore. Steve is so fucking _beautiful._  Everything about him is so beautiful, that Bucky can’t breathe. The dim lighting in the bathroom makes all the sharp edges in his face cast shadows, thin, long strokes of black from his eyelashes over his cheekbones, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.

Suddenly, not glancing at Steve’s lips and keeping himself from pulling him close and kissing him is the hardest thing he’s ever tried in his whole entire life.

How Bucky has ignored this for the past four months is a goddamn mystery.

Steve’s eyes flicker down Bucky’s face, and back to his eyes again. Almost, as if he is anticipating something, but Bucky still can’t breathe.

Steve clears his throat, and Bucky drops his hand automatically, his pulse way too high.

“I, uh- I’ll check on the dogs.”

That’s totally unnecessary, the dogs are fine downstairs, probably asleep on the couch, but Bucky knows that this is becoming ridiculous and uncomfortable for both of them.

Steve leaves and Bucky stays back in the bathroom with his textbook and a racing heart. He closes the door, pulls out his phone. He needs to talk to Natasha.

She answers pretty much immediately. “What’s up?”

“I’m freaking out, a little,” Bucky whispers, “Nat, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Thinking about what and why are you whispering?” In the background he can hear the tv, Clint laughs.

“Because I am in Steve’s bathroom and I don’t want him to hear me,” Bucky answers desperately. He hates himself a little for it.

“You are ridiculous. Clinton Francis Barton, I swear to god, if you finish the popcorn, I am going to kill you. Slowly.”

“I’m not eating it! ’s one of the Luckys, I swear!” it comes out of the background, Clint’s mouth sounding suspiciously full.

“Last warning.”

“I’m _not!_ ”

“Okay, hey, back to me,” Bucky pleads, “I am gonna go insane.”

“You are already, Mister ‘Severely Depressed’,” Nat reminds him, a smile in her voice. “So. What is it you can’t stop thinking about?”

“Kissing him,” Bucky hisses. He prays to all deities in this world (and the ones out of this world) that Steve doesn’t hear him.

“Oh my god, not this _again,_ ” Nat groans, voice full of exasperation, “I told you before, if you want to kiss him so badly, just do it. The man didn’t buy you your favorite flowers because he hates you.”

“I know,” Bucky sighs and sits down on the closed toilet seat. “I know, Nat, okay? It’s freaking me out.”

“You’re making much more of a drama out of this than necessary,” Nat says, and she sounds annoyed. It’s her default voice most of the time, so Bucky knows she’s not really irritated with him. “You could end this whole stupid pining in seconds. Just kiss him goddammit.”

“I’m not _pining._ ” He takes a deep breath in. “Okay? I am not.”

“No, of course not.”

“I’m _not pining._ ”

“Clint, can you believe Bucky’s not pining for Steve?”

“Ha, that’s a laugh,” Clint says from the background, doing no actual laughing.

“We’re not buying it,” Nat grumbles. “And your denial doesn’t help. What are you so scared of, huh?”

“I’m not-...” Bucky breaks himself off. Nat’s right, denying it doesn’t make it better, and he _is_ scared. “I don’t wanna ruin it. I- I don’t want to let him in so he can push me away when he realizes how nonfunctional I am and that I’m not worth the effort. I don’t want to lose him, okay? He’s so understanding and- he never judges, and his fucking liquid sunshine smile, I just- Nat, I _can’t_ _lose_ him. He’s so important.”

“James,” Nat says and she sounds like Bucky is missing one big point. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

“Hey-”

“Do you ever listen to yourself?”

Bucky can’t answer. He’s definitely missing something here.

“You’re _so_ stupid I can’t comprehend how you have managed to not get it until now.”

“Get what?”

“Oh my god,” she sighs. “Oh my god, _James._ Just open your fucking _eyes._  Call me when you’ve got a grip.”

And then she just hangs up.

Confused, Bucky stares at his phone for a few seconds, before he locks it and picks up his book.

What doesn’t he get?

He hears Steve come up the stairs, and go into the bedroom. A few soft _clack clack’_ s on the parquet floor follow him.

“Sunshine,” Steve says strictly, his voice muffled by the closed bathroom door, “no. Get down. You’re not allowed on the bed. You too, Lucy. To your blanket. Move.”

Bucky has to smile. That’s probably his fault.

He decides to pull himself together. It’s just Steve.

Patient, understanding Steve, who’s been here every step of the way and who has not let him down once. Tall, beautiful Steve who doesn’t get irritated with Bucky’s indecisiveness and laughs and smiles and tells Bucky that it will be okay. Steve who hugs him tight and makes the most delicious breakfast for him, Steve who holds him through his panic attacks and Steve who kicks him out of bed on his bad days. Steve who pets his hair and takes care of him when can’t take care of himself. Steve who offers to take him in for a whole month if Bucky feels bad because of his new meds. Steve who secretly draws him and thinks Bucky doesn’t notice and Steve who keeps on watching boring kids movies with him because Bucky can’t watch anything else and Steve who is there with advice and to listen to anything Bucky has to say, no matter how ridiculous. Steve who buys his favorite flowers and adds a dash of patience to let Bucky know that he doesn’t have to be scared that Steve’ll leave him. Steve, who’d do anything for him.

And then, Bucky has a divine revelation.

It’s like an angel comes from heaven and hits him on the head with a bible because Bucky has been too fucking stupid to realize it until now.

Steve _loves_ him.

He has too. There is no other explainable way as to why he’d keep up with Bucky’s constant bullshit, drama, and whining.

Anything else doesn’t make sense.

It’s like a lot is suddenly clearer. _Of course._

Bucky pulls out his phone. Texts Nat.

**_Took you long enough_** _,_ she texts back.

 ___

“Let’s go on that date,” Bucky says at breakfast the next morning.

Steve looks up from his phone, where he’s been reading the news. “What?” he asks, because he isn’t sure if he just imagined Bucky saying that. Maybe he misunderstood. Maybe Bucky said _Becs’ got a date,_ which would make more sense since Bucky told him that she’s engaged now.

“Let’s go on that date,” Bucky repeats, putting a new spoon of muesli into his mouth. “Dinner, right?”

Stunned, Steve puts down the phone and takes his new reading glasses off.

(Bucky had made fun of him all week for it. “‘Presbyopia’,” he had cited from Wikipedia, “‘is a condition associated with the aging of the eye. It is a natural part of the aging process.’ You’re old. Told you, grandpa,“ to which Steve had replied that he’s not old and that his eyes haven’t been good his entire life. Bucky had laughed some more, and kept calling him a grandpa.)

“Uh, yeah. Dinner.” Steve searches for his eyes, but Bucky is flipping through a few pages from his textbook, clearly looking for something. “When would you like to?”

“What about Friday?” Bucky asks. He mumbles something under his breath, his finger stops on a page. “Is that good for you?”

“That’s the day of my job interview,” Steve reminds him, “I dunno. Maybe earlier? I don’t want to ruin it if the interview doesn’t go well.”

“Thursday?” his brunette suggests and looks up from his book. Their eyes meet and Steve’s stomach does a little drop. He’s completely serious. There is not a single indication as to that Bucky might take that offer back.

“I’m probably too nervous, then,” he says.

It sounds like he’s trying to make excuses now, which, in God’s name, he’s not, but Bucky just nods understandingly. “What about tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow is, uh... good.” They’re still looking at each other, and Bucky’s smile makes his heart go all light. He knows it’s pathetic and embarrassing, but he’s just _so in love with Bucky_. He can’t remember the last time he’s been _this_ gone for someone and thinks that maybe it’s the first time.

“Cool,” Bucky says. His smile grows wider, and his teeth slip out between his lips. “Where are you taking me?”

Sometimes Steve wants to fling himself off a cliff. Bucky is so beautiful, it’s just unfair.

“What do you think about Mediterranean food?” Steve asks. He can’t believe that Bucky is actually serious. The evening before he seemed freaked out just _hearing_ about the idea.

“As long as I can get a dish without meat.” Bucky grins. “You have something in mind?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. “Yeah, I have something in mind.”

Something is different. Bucky seems more open. More relaxed, more himself. Easier, maybe. In the night, he held his hand. Cuddled up to him, even though the nights before he has been complaining that Steve’s body runs too hot for this weather. Pressed his cheek to Steve’s chest. Commented on his heartbeat with a teasing chuckle.

He has to close his eyes for a second.

God, it’s overwhelming. He’s so in love with this man. He’d do anything to keep him by his side forever.

“Are you okay?” Bucky wants to know.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Steve opens his eyes again, and Bucky is looking at him with his head tilted slightly to the side. As if he is considering something.

“You sure?”

“I’m happy,” he reassures him.

“I am too,” Bucky answers. A socked foot touches Steve’s bare one under the table. “I’m so glad I met you.”

Oh boy. And how Steve is.

 ___

The evening of their date, Bucky arranges that Clint and Natasha take care of the dogs. Natasha picks them up, and when Bucky is getting the bag Steve packed for Sunshine and Lucy (Bucky called him a fucking helicopter parent for it), Natasha looks at Steve with a knowing look.

“So,” she says.

Steve isn’t entirely sure what she wants of him.

“If this stupid pining doesn’t get ended this night, I am going to smack both of your heads together to get you to finally kiss. If that means you will break your noses doing so, so be it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Natasha says slyly. “Get a grip, you two.”

“Nat,” Bucky calls from the kitchen, “are you threatening Steve?”

“No,” she exclaims sweetly, and then glares back at Steve, her voice lowered. “In the case that I don’t get an excited message from Bucky tomorrow morning, saying that you two are helplessly in love and will spend your lifes forever together, I am going to come into your house, and I will _make_ you.” Her eyes narrow, and she pokes her index finger into Steve’s chest. “You two will end up together. I will _personally_ guarantee it.” The way she says it, Steve doesn’t doubt her even just for a second.

Bucky comes in from the kitchen, and Nat pats with her open palm where her finger bore into his skin. “Mark my words.”

“Nat,” Bucky groans, “will you stop scaring people I like?”

“Never,” she grins, takes the bag Bucky offers her, and then calls for both their dogs. “Have fun.”

She drives off, with Sunshine in the front seat, throwing sad looks at Steve, and he feels slightly guilty for a moment. But it’s just for the evening.

Bucky closes the door and leans against it with his back, smiling sheepishly. “Are we gonna leave, or what?”

He’s wearing one of Steve’s favorite button downs (not his favorite in the way that Steve likes to wear it, but it’s his favorite shirt on Bucky), dark blue and Steve just wants to kiss and then undress him.

“Yeah, sure, just let me get my wallet and my phone,” Steve nods, takes two steps at a time up to his bedroom and gets both items. When he takes a quick look at the time on his phone’s screen, he sees a message from Peggy. **_Go get him, tiger_** _,_ it reads, and Steve smiles.

They take the bike, and Steve realizes, that except for his shoes, Bucky is dressed head to toe in Steve’s clothes. The thick, black leather jacket Steve gave him sits loosely on Bucky’s shoulders, and when he zips it up and accepts the helmet that Steve offers him with a lopsided grin, Steve has to take every ounce of will together to not kiss him and rip the fucking jacket off his shoulders right that second.

“I’ve never been on a bike with someone before,” Bucky says as they wheel it outside of the garage, “I’m excited.” He adds, “but not scared,” when he sees Steve’s concerned look.

Steve kickstarts the engine with the second try, puts on his own helmet, and when Bucky slips onto the bike behind him, arms snug around his waist and his head on his shoulder, his heart just won’t slow down. His stomach does a few funny drops when Bucky giggles excitedly in response to the engine howling.

They drive for twenty minutes, and not once do Bucky’s arms move. At a stoplight, Steve dares to put one of his hands on Bucky’s folded against his stomach, and as a response, Bucky puts his head in the space between his shoulder blades. It’s slightly uncomfortable because of the helmet, but the gesture makes his heart and stomach melt like honey in warm milk.

With their helmets under their arms, and their hands in each other, fingers slipping into the spaces between fingers - just where they belong, they walk the short distance from the parking space to the restaurant, and they don’t talk. But it isn’t uncomfortable. Bucky hums a song under his breath, and Steve has to keep himself from spilling his guts. He holds open the door for Bucky, and he smiles so wide and pure, that Steve falls a little more in love with him.

Bucky gets white wine and something with falafel, rice and tofu, and Steve orders a virgin cocktail and pulled jackfruit BBQ, even though Bucky doesn’t mind him eating meat. They make light conversation waiting for their food, and Steve can’t help staring because Bucky just looks so good.

At some point, he notices, because Steve isn’t being subtle (as always) and he grins. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” Steve sighs and returns the smile. “You’re just so incredibly handsome.”

Instead of blushing, Bucky takes his glass of wine, and with his lips touching the brim, he says, “Likewise.”

Of course, Steve has noticed, that Bucky does his own fair share of staring, it’s not like he is completely unobservant. Steve has noticed, but never has Bucky said something to explicitly express that.

“I like the beard,” he adds now, setting the glass down. “It looks good on you.”

Something is going on. It’s not that Bucky is more open, he’s practically _bold._ With his grinning, and the way he is looking at Steve, and the moments over the past week where the tension between them seemed unbearable, Steve is almost sure, that Bucky suspects something. Maybe, that’s not entirely unlikely. Becca said he’d have to hit people with signs to make it even more obvious. Natasha seemed to know.

“Thank you,” Steve replies after a too long pause and shrugs. “Gonna shave it off for the interview though.”

“What a pity,” Bucky sighs.

Their food arrives and Steve doesn’t have to think of a good answer. They eat, Bucky changes the topic to Steve’s work and asks about his co-workers that have been getting on his nerves again. Steve tells him about some eight-day trip that the art teachers are planning for their classes in July, and Bucky’s eyes light up.

“Hey, if you get the new job,” he says, “could I come? Could you sneak me in?”

“Maybe,” Steve ponders, “but we’d have to be really smart about it. Why do you want to join?”

“It’s just... eight days without you,” Bucky says, and now his cheeks do light up slightly, “that’s so long.”

Steve thinks about it. It _is_ long, and it’d be the longest that they wouldn’t see each other since they’ve met. Somehow, that strikes him hard. They’ve been around each other constantly for so long. Four months, it doesn’t seem much said like that, but that’s one-hundred twenty-one days. Almost three thousand hours. That’s _a lot_ of time. Time that Steve can’t think of how he could’ve spent it better.

“We’ll sneak you in,” Steve decides.

Bucky gives him a winning grin, and then he thinks of something. “It’s your birthday in July. Soon.”

“Yeah. All my friends will be coming over. We always have a barbeque and go watch fireworks, in the afternoon.” Steve pauses and holds Bucky’s gaze. “Do you want to come?”

Now he makes a face, puts down his fork and his teeth pull on his lower lip. “I don’t know, Steve. It’s not because it’s your birthday. More because it’s-”

“The fourth of July,” Steve completes. “I understand.”

“No, listen,” Bucky says seriously, “It has nothing to do with you. I had planned to just bury myself under blankets and pillows on Independence Day and not go outside until the sun has set and risen at least two times, okay? That’s been my plan for like at least six months now.”

“It’s going to be fun, I promise,” Steve tries to convince him, “We’ll have barbecue and cake and lots of food and everyone will be in a good mood. Besides, my friends wanted to meet you for a long time now.”

“You told your friends about me?” Bucky asks surprised as he’s about to take another sip of wine, the glass hovering in mid-air.

“Sure,” Steve answers. “Sure I did.”

Bucky sighs, and closes his eyes for a moment, a crease between his brows. Steve feels like reaching over and smoothing it out. “I need to think about it.”

“It’s okay. I mean, I understand if you don’t want to. It would just- it’d make me really happy if you’d be there.”

“I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Yeah, of course. I don’t want to pressure you into anything you don’t want, or feel uncomfortable with.”

The brunette smiles, picks up his fork again and assures him, “You never do. Don’t worry.”

So Steve doesn’t worry.

“By the way,” Bucky says, “I decided. With the meds, I mean. I’ll try it out. Just to see if it helps.”

“Awesome, Buck,” he smiles, “I’m really proud of you.”

“Nothing to be proud about,” he plays it down, waving a hand.

“Of course it is,” Steve insists. “You were very worried. Scared it might make you worse. So you can be proud of yourself. It’s a very brave decision.”

Something about the word ‘brave’ makes Bucky’s eyes fly to his plate. “Thank you, Stevie,” he whispers, and over the background noise of people lightly talking, lounge music playing, plates, cutlery and glasses clinking, Steve almost doesn’t hear it. “You make me feel like I can do anything.”

“Because you can,” Steve acknowledges and reaches out for Bucky’s left hand. Bucky smiles a soft smile into himself, his fingers curling into Steve’s. “You _can_ do anything you want. Take a look around you. Look how far you’ve come. If you set your mind on it, I believe that you can do anything.”

It’s true, he believes it with all honesty, that Bucky could do anything. He is so sure of it, he knows that if Bucky would want to visit the stars, he’d find a way to bring them down to him.

Steve would probably pull them down, before Bucky could even ask.

“I feel so horribly normal,” Bucky says now, “not that normal is horrible. It’s just - I feel like I am waiting for something to happen. It’s just too good to be true.”

“You deserve good. You deserve all the good in the world.”

Yeah, Steve would be the one to pull. He’d pull down all fucking stars just so Bucky could take a look.

He takes a deep breath now, eyes swiftly glancing at Steve’s, his fingers play with the stem of his wine glass. He’s about to say something important. “I feel so like myself, tonight. I... haven’t felt this much like myself in years.”

Steve notices that he doesn’t say _old Bucky._ He says _myself._

Suddenly his eyes widen, and abruptly he stands up. “I’m so fucking stupid.”

“What’s wrong?” Their hands have slipped from each other. Steve searches for Bucky’s eyes, but he stares blankly into the room, as if he has just remembered something. It’s not like the stare he has when he gets thrown into a flashback or a painful memory, it’s different.

He inhales sharply. “I have to- Sorry, Steve. I just-” And then he leaves.

He hurries out of the restaurant, and Steve can feel his heart shatter into a hundred thousand little pieces.

  ~~~

Outside, around the corner, Bucky calls Natasha.

“Nat,” he says, breathless.

“What’s up?”

“Nat, I’m so fucking stupid,” he chokes out, once again he feels like someone hit his back and knocked all air out of his lungs. “Nat, I’m having a fucking _epiphany._ ”

“Ah, finally.”

He doesn’t need to say it, because Nat just _knows_. She’s always known this before Bucky'd even began to grasp the concept of knowing. She’s always known him better than he knew himself.

“We can keep the dogs for the night, Clint,” she says, completely unfazed. “Where’s Steve?”

“Still inside the restaurant, I- I had to call you.” He pushes a hand through his hair, messing up the neat middle parting he had done as they got ready. “What the fuck do I do now?”

She sighs. “This is entirely like high school again. Why am I always the one who handles your relationships? Go back, apologize, first of all. He probably thinks you just dumped him.”

“I’m stupid.”

“Yes. Go, now. And don’t worry so much. Just use your words. You know what to do.”

And for some reason, Bucky does know.

  ___

When Bucky falls down back onto his chair, only one and a half minutes after he left, Steve is confused and doubting everything he ever did that might’ve fucked up his relationship with Bucky.

“Sorry,” Bucky smiles, his cheeks red, his hair a mess as if he’s ran his fingers through it. Just like that, he picks up the hundred thousand pieces of Steve‘s heart and they come together again. “I just- had to call Natasha. It’s good now.”

Steve is at loss for words for a second, taken aback by how utterly beautiful Bucky is and how relieved he is that he didn’t fuck up. “God, Bucky, I was worried,” he mumbles, the anxiety slowly falling off him.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, “it was just really urgent.” He reaches one hand over the table, and Steve can’t help but take it. “It’s all good now.”

“What was wrong?” Steve asks, thinking it might’ve been something he’s done.

“I’ll tell you later,” he smiles, fingers squeezing Steve’s. “Don’t worry.” He looks down at his mostly finished plate, and grins when he meets Steve’s eyes again. “You know what? I’d like dessert.”

Steve laughs quietly, because Bucky is adorable. “Sure. Let’s get some dessert.”

 ___

The ride back home Bucky buries his hands in the pockets of Steve’s leather jacket. He should’ve gotten the gloves out. Didn’t think of it, with the excitement over the imminent date. It’s gone dark and colder now, but when they arrive in the driveway to the garage of the house, Bucky shrugs off the warm jacket as soon as he can. The helmet follows after that, and his hair is messed up, sticking to his forehead and into all directions from static. It’s cute, and Steve can’t help smiling at the sight.

“Stop grinning,” Bucky demands, “you look stupid.”

Steve unlocks the garage door with a shake of his head, the smile not leaving his lips. “And you look adorable.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, sounding genuinely interested in Steve’s answer. It’s not just a smug remark, or a rhetorical question, he seems to like to have it confirmed. Just to make sure.

“Yeah. Matter of fact, you do.”

Not just adorable, but so, _so_ beautiful.

There’s a lot of things that actually do make him so incredibly beautiful. Steve could say a thousand things. His hair, his eyes, his lips, _god, his lips,_  his nose, the tiny freckles that have recently developed on the bridge of it trailing up between his eyebrows and down on his cheekbones, fuck, his _cheekbones,_  sharp and defined, just like his jaw, he could kill a man alone with his face, then there is his kindness, the wit in his eyes and voice, the way he says Steve’s name, or even sometimes that nickname, _Stevie,_  or maybe the way that he smells at flowers, how he hides his interest in art and his ability to read people and paintings alike, how he talks with his sisters on the phone, endearingly calls them _Wins_ and _Becs,_  lets himself get called ‘Bucky’, the nickname for a stinking flower, that pitch his voice changes into when he speaks to his dog, how sometimes he will stand minutes in front of one of Steve’s paintings, inspecting it from top to bottom, and then pretend as if nothing has happened when Steve joins him, or maybe just simply the way that Bucky smiles and laughs, because it’s the most beautiful thing that Steve has ever seen or heard.

He doesn’t say it aloud.

It’s not the time to say it. Bucky still has to decide. Make a move. Or not make a move. Unless he does, unless he arrives at a decision, Steve will not take advantage by luring him in with pretty words.

Bucky smiles, wide, with an aura of disbelief, but he smiles at hearing that. He helps push in the bike, and then leaves Steve’s leather jacket on the dryer in the garage, as he enters the house.

Steve’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

It’s Peggy. **_So, how did that date go?_ **

He leans against the securely parked bike and smiles. **_Apart from one incident that had him running outside, quite good._ **

**_The biking?_ ** she asks, sending a bicycle emoji after it. **_How did he like that?_ **

Telling her about Bucky’s arms and hands, he smiles into himself. God. Bucky's _touch_. It’s so rare that he initiates physical contact like _this_.

**_I told you, the Harley gets them all._ **

Before he can answer to that, the door to the hallway gets opened again, and Bucky pokes in his head. “Are you coming, grandpa? Do you need your walker?”

“You’re a brat,” Steve laughs, “and I don’t know how I haven’t noticed that before.”

“ _F_ _uck_ you,” Bucky counters. “This brat is going to get a nice, cold drink, and watch a movie. You wanna join - or is it already past your bedtime?”

“Get out,” Steve laughs, pushing himself off the bike, and follows Bucky, who vanishes snickering in the hallway.  

Bucky waits in the open door to the kitchen, leaning against the wooden frame with his shoulder, arms crossed over his chest, watching Steve take off his jacket and shoes. “Leather suits you,” he says, his voice suddenly rough and throaty and Steve gets goosebumps. It’s ridiculous, what just Bucky’s voice will do to him. “I mean, the usual classy teacher look does too, but the leather is a nice change.”

Steve shoots him a confused smile. “What’s going on, Bucky?”

With just one corner of his mouth rising, he shrugs. “I dunno. You tell me. What _is_ going on?”

“You’re… giving me compliments. You never do that.”

“I do!” Bucky exclaims with feigned indignation, “Constantly!”

Shaking his head, he passes Bucky in the doorway, but can’t help but shove his shoulder. He gets a shove right back, and ends up almost tripping over his own feet, only for Bucky to catch him at the back of his shirt. “Whoa, slow down, grandpa.” Two hands land on his shoulders and slowly push him into the kitchen. “Don’t want you breaking your old bones.”

“Buck,” Steve says with an exasperated sigh, “I am really not that much older than you. _Nine_ years.”

“Old enough so that when you had your first time I was probably still playing in the sandbox.” Bucky sits himself down on one of the counters and reaches for the wall cupboard that contains all the glasses.

While Steve gets cold water from the fridge, he replies, “I highly doubt you were still playing in the sandbox with twelve.”

Bucky grins at that. “Come _on._ ” He nods to the glass bottle Steve is holding. “Unless that is vodka, I’d rather have something else.”

“Why, are you planning on getting drunk?” Steve asks.

“Yep,” he says, popping the p with a smack of his lips. “Since it’s the last time I can actually drink alcohol, I planned on getting smashed.” He grins, points to the alcohol cabinet and then stretches out his hand with the glass. “Pour me some.”

“What do you want?”

“Whiskey’s good,” he says. “You know, I missed out on so many good parties. I have a lot to make up for.” It doesn’t sound like Bucky - parties, getting drunk - but maybe Steve is catching a glimpse into Bucky’s past personality just now. 

“As long as you don’t puke,” Steve shrugs and hands him his only whiskey, a present from Tony when he bought the house four years ago. Steve’s not much of a drinker. “You want ice with that?”

“Sure,” Bucky answers, pours himself half a glass, and then hands it to Steve so he can put it under the ice maker in the fridge. “What about you, grandpa?”

“I have work tomorrow, Bucky,” Steve reminds him with a smile.

“Your point?” Bucky grins, takes back the glass as Steve offers it to him, and takes a swig. He squeezes his eyelids together and inhales sharply through his teeth. “This is good. So, let’s get back to uh… twenty-one?”

“Twenty-one,” Steve confirms.

“How come?”

Steve scoffs. “Well. If you’d see the photos from my teenage years, you’d know.”

“You realize that now you have to show me those photos?” Bucky teases, poking a finger into Steve’s upper arm.

“They’re in the attic, so…”

“Lame excuse. Let’s get up there. I wanna see the photos.”

And what Bucky wants, he gets, because Steve is fucking weak like that.

He’d pull down the stars.

 ___

“Why have I never been up here before?” Bucky asks as he plops himself down on a dusty bean bag sitting between cardboard boxes and painting frames and canvases. “Do you paint in here?”

“Sometimes,” Steve says, handing him over the bottle of whiskey before he closes the hatch. “Not in the summer, though. It gets too warm.”

Bucky pulls on the front of his dress shirt and pops open the first two buttons. Steve has to physically pull himself from staring at the small amount of chest he gets to see. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s hot.”

He’s up to something. Steve is not stupid.

He rummages through a few of the boxes next to where Bucky is lounging in the bean bag like a king, and after a few minutes, he finally finds the one he’s looking for.

He kneels down next to Bucky and opens the carton. A photo of his mom is the very first he sees, and he smiles. He hasn’t thought of her in a while, and sometimes he feels guilty for it, but today he doesn’t. She’d be happy that he’s busy. She‘d be happy that he‘s in love.

“Is that your momma?” Bucky asks, his voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” Steve says, takes out the photo, and hands it over to Bucky. It shows her on the beach, in a red dress and a hat to protect her from the sun. Steve doesn’t know who took it. She is young in it, maybe in her mid-twenties.

Bucky flips the photo. It says ‘Sarah, 1979’ in a handwriting that Steve doesn’t recognize. He hasn’t looked at these photos in a long time. “She’s beautiful,” Bucky says softly and smiles at Steve. “Now I know where you got your good looks from.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Steve mumbles, and takes the stack of photos out of the carton, so they can flip through it. It’s another one of his mom, she’s sitting at the kitchen table, with her head in her hands, and she’s smiling. Steve can see school supplies in front of her, and he smiles. “I took that.”

Again, Bucky turns the photo. On the backside, in a scrawly kid’s handwriting (Steve’s handwriting) it reads ‘Mom, 1988’. “She looks happy,” he comments.

The next photo is of Steve. He’s maybe six years old, and he’s proudly holding a tooth in his hand, showing the matching gap in a big smile. “Aw,” Bucky makes and grins. “Well, that is cute.” He points to Steve’s hair in the picture. “Your hair’s almost white here.”

“Yeah, it only got some color later,” Steve says.

Next picture is him and his mom, outside of the MoMa. Bucky flips it and then frowns in confusion. “Sixteen?” he says as he reads Sarah’s delicate handwriting “No. You can’t be sixteen here. You’re like, what… five foot four?”

“I was really short,” Steve explains with a smile, “until around eighteen. Got a growth spurt until twenty-one, and finally caught up with other guys.”

“That’s a pretty late growth spurt. Especially for someone to grow like… what - more than half a foot?”

“CDGP,” Steve explains, “that’s constitutional delay of growth and puberty. Basically, my body growth slowed down drastically between three and six months old, and I got all growth spurts and hit puberty about three years later than everyone else. Doesn’t do anything else though.”

“Weird,” Bucky chimes and sips from his glass, his eyes skimming over Steve’s face and torso for a second. “Well. You turned out just fine.”

“I guess,” Steve says with a smile.

Bucky demands to look at more photos, and smiles and laughs, and points out more than once, that he doesn’t see how this excuses the "late" first time.

Steve doesn’t feel like defending himself for that, but after Bucky giggles over his junior prom pictures, and asks how this didn’t get him laid, he sighs and explains, “Bucky, it affected _all_ growth of my body. I had pretty low self-esteem about it.”

Bucky blanks for a few seconds before he grins, wide, and bold. “Ah,” he says, “I understand.” He empties his third glass, a light shade of pink down his neck and his chest, but that's just from the alcohol. 

Steve can feel himself blushing. “I caught up, eventually.”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky grins. “If your dick is even just half as big as your ego, we’ll be fine.”

It’s at this moment, that Steve realizes that he really should’ve paid more attention to how much Bucky was drinking. He is up to something.

“Hey, show me the bottle,” Steve says, and Bucky lifts it up with a confused smile. It’s more than half empty. It wasn’t completely full to begin with, but the amount of liquor that Bucky drank from it should be enough to have him drunk, for someone who isn’t an occasional drinker. Which Bucky isn’t. Steve thinks.

“You want some of that?” Bucky asks and is about to pour another glass when Steve catches his wrist.

“No, Bucky, and you shouldn’t either.”

“I’m not _drunk,_ ” he says, almost offended at the suggestion. “I can hold my alcohol.” Then he giggles at a thought, and Steve just wants to lean into him and never let him go again. “That’s the Russian blood, you know.”

“You’re not even from Russia,” Steve objects. “Put the bottle down.” When Bucky doesn’t, he takes both bottle and glass from his hands and places them safely behind him on the ground.

“But my relatives are,” his brunette smiles. “Great-grandparents. I think.” He leans in, his breath smells like whiskey, and whispers, “Krovnoye rodstvo.” Again, like when he first heard Russian out of Bucky’s mouth, his body decides to react to it, speeding up his heart rate, sending a rush of adrenaline into his hands and chest. “Blood relations, they count,” Bucky breathes, and Steve guesses with the rest of his functioning brain cells that he translated what he just said.

Involuntarily his breath hitches when Bucky comes even closer and drawls, “Do you like that?” His eyes lock with Steve’s. “When I speak Russian?”

His stomach does a jump. _Yes. Yes, I do like that. A lot._

He realizes what he’s thinking. He shouldn’t be doing this. Not under these circumstances. He’s being stupid. He’s being _incredibly_ stupid.

Not under the influence of alcohol. That’s just not right.

One of his hands reaches out to softly pat his chest. “Buck,” he says, way calmer than he actually feels, his heart pushing hard against his ribcage.

“You do, huh?” the brunette purrs with a knowing smirk. “Your pupils are all dilated. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Bucky,” he says, now more insistently, gently pushing at his chest, but the younger man doesn’t move even a single inch. His own heart is beating fast underneath Steve’s fingers, and they rise when he inhales deeply.

“I’d like to kiss you.”

Steve can’t fucking _breathe._

Bucky leans in and tilts his head, with a mumbled “I’d really like that”, the words hitting Steve’s lips. They‘re only inches apart from each other.

For a second, Steve’s floating, because this is what he’s dreamt of, what he has wished and hoped for, for months, this is what he’s been longing after since the day that Bucky laughed for the first time but simultaneously this is also everything Steve _doesn’t_ want.

And he knew that Bucky was up to something. He knew it from the moment that Bucky crawled into bed the night before and put his head right on Steve’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“Bucky, no,” he chokes out and it turns his stomach into a twist because he painfully realizes how _much_ he wants Bucky, and how much he wants this to happen. “Not like this.”

“I’m not drunk,” Bucky says again, pulling his eyebrows together. “I’m really not.”

“But you had something to drink,” Steve insists and finally gets to push Bucky out of his breathing space.

“I am _not_ drunk,” Bucky repeats. “Tipsy, maybe. Yeah. But not drunk. I can hold my liquor, and I know what I want.”

“That’s great, really, Buck, but- it’s not what I want.”

“It’s not?” Bucky asks, and he sounds confused, leans back, the bean bag crunching with the shift of weight.

“Not like this,” Steve says again. “Not when we could do something really stupid.”

“Jeez,” Bucky huffs out and defiantly crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I didn’t want to _fuck_ you. Don’t get your panties in a twist, I just wanted to kiss you.”

It does sting a little, the rejection, even though Steve should just know better. Bucky isn’t comfortable with this, so much that he has to resort to alcohol to get up the courage to even kiss him.

“Not that I even _could_ fuck you,” Bucky mutters under his breath. “Even if I wanted to.”

Steve _knows_ he shouldn’t react on this, that Bucky didn’t say this for him to be heard, and that the brunette’s brain to mouth filter has practically vanished right now, but he can’t help but be curious. “How so?”

He shrugs and lets his head fall into the bean bag. “I dunno. Don’t have any kind of sex drive. Since a little over a year.” Then he scoffs, bitterly. “Apart from the fact that I couldn’t even let you touch me.” His hands settle on his ribs. “Let you make me feel _good._ ”

It’s not a road he should go down wandering. It’s not a topic he should explore right now. But somehow, Steve can tell that Bucky wants to talk about this. He just might not have the guts to do so completely sober. “You wouldn’t want that?”

“No,” Bucky says, calmly, “I wouldn’t even want you looking at me.” Something in his voice hurts right in the middle of Steve’s chest.

“Why not?” he asks, “you’re beautiful. In every way.”

Bucky scoffs again and his fingers thrum on his ribcage. “You wouldn’t think that if you’d knew what I’ve done. What’s under this shirt.”

“You can’t know that.” Steve reaches out, and puts his right hand on the moving fingers. “You can’t know what I would think unless you explain to me. Unless you show me.”

“No,” he says. “No, Steve.”

Before Steve even can say that that’s totally okay and that he respects that decision, and that he will be patient and that Bucky can take his time, take however long he wants, or not tell Steve at all, that Steve won’t mind, before he can say all of that, before even a word leaves his lips, Bucky gets up quickly, and mumbles, “let’s go to bed, Stevie. I’m tired.”

They leave the photos and the whiskey behind.

Bucky pulls him by the hand into the bedroom, only takes off his jeans and puts on the sweatpants he left on a chair in the morning, asks Steve to open the window and then falls onto the bed with a soft _thump,_ his eyes closing as soon as his head hits the mattress.

When the blonde crawls into bed next to his favorite human on this planet, he expects him to be dead asleep, or if not that, to keep to himself - but he reaches out with his hand, and their fingers weave together.

And just when Steve is about to fall asleep, Bucky next to him softly raises his voice. “Stevie?”

“Yeah?” He opens his eyes again and finds the other man studying him.

Inhaling deeply, he says, “do you really want to know?” His free fingers are playing with the buttons of his shirt. Not opening them, just running over them, circling between thumb and index finger.

“If you want to show me,” Steve answers. He knows that this is not about Bucky taking his shirt off. This is not about the intimacy, or the sexual aspect of it. This is about something entirely different. “You don’t need to.”

The next breath gets pulled in shakily and leaves Bucky’s mouth in the same way. He’s nervous. But he opens three more buttons, a tremor in his hand, and pulls the shirt to the side.

At first, Steve doesn’t know what he’s looking at.

It’s an old bullet wound, yes, he does see that. By the size of the scar probably caused by a .308 caliber rifle. What he is so ashamed about, that he thinks that Steve would change his mind about Bucky’s unfathomable, ethereal beauty, he doesn’t get. He was a soldier. He got hit.

But then he realizes.

“Oh, _Bucky,_ ” he whispers.

“And they-” His voice cracks. “And they fucking _saved_ me.”

“I am so glad that they did,” Steve breathes out, and his heart aches terribly. “I am so glad that you’re here and alive.”

“Nobody asked if I wanted that.” Bucky breathes out shuddery. “Nobody fucking asked.” He’s crying. He’s _hurting._ “So there, you’ve seen it. Are you happy now?”

“No, Buck,” Steve reaches out, and encloses him into his arms, holding him tight, foolishly hoping to take all of his pain that way, “no, of course not. It wasn’t about that. I’m- ... I feel honored about the amount of trust you put into me. But it is nothing you should be ashamed of. And it is definitely nothing that makes you ugly. Or whatever else you’re thinking.”

“It does,” Bucky disagrees harshly. “It does, and you know that. It’s proof of-” He doesn’t finish.

“No, it doesn’t. Because you are not your past. You are not your mistakes, and you are worthy, of life, happiness, and recovery. And you’re alive and beautiful.”

“It _does._ ”

“Oh, Bucky,” Steve sighs again. _I love you, so much._

“I know,” Bucky answers, as if he can read his mind.

 ___

Natasha wakes them up the next morning. She calls Bucky on his phone and tells him that she’s going to arrive at Steve’s place in five. When he hangs up, Bucky doesn’t say anything except to inform Steve about Nat’s arrival. Sleepily they make their way to the bathroom to brush their teeth, and for Steve to put on at least a shirt and some pants. When the doorbell rings, they still haven’t talked.

“Rise and shine, Gentlemen,” Natasha says in a honeyed voice when Steve opens the door, “I have coffee and donuts for you, and two dogs that seriously miss their owners.”

Out of the front yard, Sunshine comes running up the stairs and jumps up at Steve, as if he hasn’t seen him in years. “You big goofball,” Steve laughs and pets him as best as he can, while Sunshine jumps, and then takes off into the living room, to probably jump on the couch. Lucy comes in just when Sunshine is out of the hallway, almost rams Natasha out of the way, and proceeds to happily round Bucky with little hops of joy, until she very much notices that something is wrong. Sitting down, she bumps her nose into Bucky’s leg.

“Thanks, Nat, really,” Bucky mumbles as he accepts the paper bag she hands him.

The redhead waves her hand dismissively. “It’s okay. I have to get to work, but I expect a detailed text message later, yes?” She gives a quick smile to Bucky, and then walks back to the street, where she'd parked her car.

“Can we eat this in bed?” Bucky asks, closing the door. He’s evading Steve’s eyes, his shirt is still open, the fabric crumpled.

“Of course, whatever you want, Bucky.”

They walk upstairs, Sunshine joins after them and jumps around the bed, expecting to be pet by both Steve and Bucky. The brunette takes the coffee out of the bag and tries from one of the containers, pulls a face and reaches over to give it to Steve. “This one is yours. There’s chocolate in there.”

“Thanks.” He smiles but doesn’t ask how Natasha might now that Steve likes his coffee sweet. “Do you want to talk about yesterday?” A nervous flutter settles in his stomach, and for a second Steve feels very sick. Everything could change. For the better, or for the worse. But, clearing this up will help, and in the end, he will be glad that he didn’t push it back like he used to, when he was younger.

“We should,” Bucky mutters, sipping from his own coffee. “I mean, It’s gonna make me anxious if we just ignore it.” He doesn’t say anything else, looks into the paper bag and inspects the carton with donuts that Natasha got them.

“Listen, Bucky-” Steve begins, but the brunette interrupts him.

“I don’t feel that way anymore, okay?” He doesn’t look up, opens the carton. “I don’t want that anymore. I _want_ to live. I want to- I dunno. See myself get better. Because I am. Much more than in the beginning of this year. So, just that we’re clear.”

“I know,” Steve says with a gentle smile. “I never doubted that for a second.” And it’s not what he’d wanted to talk about.

“No?” Bucky asks and his eyes flick up for a second.

“No.”

“Oh, well. I kinda thought you were about to give me the whole ‘talk about this with your therapist’ speech and that I’m not alone and whatever.” He shrugs and takes a donut with pink sprinkles, then offers the carton to Steve. “Which I know I am not. And I should talk about it with my therapist if it ever comes up again. But it hasn’t. Not once, since...” He pauses for a few seconds, thinks of something and lets out a rough, cynic laugh. “You know, dying is really shit. A lot of pain and fear.”

“I know,” Steve says. Because he’s had his own experiences. His own mistakes. But it’s in the past, and it is not important.

“Oh,” Bucky makes again. With a sigh, he takes a bite out of the donut, and pulling at the corners of his mouth, a tiny smile appears for a fraction of a second. “So, what happens now?”

“I don’t know Bucky. What do you want to happen?”

He shrugs, takes another bite, pink frosting sticks to the corners of his mouth. “I mean, I really wasn’t drunk, yesterday. I just needed a little bit of liquid courage.”

“You’re scared?”

Bucky hesitates to answer, but then nods. “Maybe. Yeah.”

“What of?” Because maybe Steve can take some of Bucky’s fear with just a few words.

His brunette takes another bite of his donut. “I just… I dunno. I don’t want to fuck everything up between us.” He softly adds, “I like it the way it is right now.”

“I do too,” Steve agrees.

“But you want more.” Steve’s stomach does a few somersaults at hearing that.

“I’m not really subtle about it,” he laughs, uneasily, “but, I guess. I’d like more, yeah.” Of course Bucky knows.

“See,” Bucky goes, not meeting his eyes, “and if I’d chicken out, you’d be disappointed. Hurt.”

“I’m fine with whatever you give me,” Steve answers seriously. A sigh leaves his mouth, and Steve decides that he should put his cards on the table, and just be open. This whole dancing around the topic is becoming exhausting. They’ve been avoiding it expertly for the past month, and at some point, even Steve gets tired of it. He takes a deep breath in, his stomach twisting with sharp nausea. But he has to get this over with. “Listen, Bucky. We don’t have to… be more, if you don’t want that, if you’re uncomfortable with it. I understand. We don’t have to do anything more than we are doing now, I don’t- I don’t expect anything from you, alright?” His chest is trembling, and he’s sick with anxiety, but he knows he’ll feel better once it’s all out. “I don’t even need to kiss you, if you don’t want that. If you do, that’s cool, but if you’re not comfortable, that's okay too. We’ll do whatever suits you best.”  

Bucky stares at him for a few seconds. Maybe that was too much honesty? Maybe Steve seriously fucked it up right now? But then he averts his eyes with a smile and looks down at the coffee he’s placed carefully in the crease between thigh and calf. “Becca said something like that. That you’d wait however long it might take me.”

His heartbeat spikes when he asks, “Do you want me to wait?”

Putting down his half-eaten donut into the open box, Bucky takes a hold of his coffee. “I’m-... okay, Steve. Here’s the thing. I was really, _really_ scared that you’d finally realize what a piece of shit I am. How broken and fucked up I am. And that you won’t want me anymore. That…”

“I’ll discard you and move on,” Steve completes, and his heart hurts terribly saying Bucky’s irrational thoughts out loud.

“But,” Bucky says with emphasis, “I realized something. Yesterday, and the evening before.” He inhales, and Steve can see how much courage it takes for him to say the next thing. “I think I realized, that, after these four months, you’ve seen that all. You’ve seen all my worst sides. You’ve seen me in pain, and desperate, and during my fucking panic attacks, and when I bawl my eyes out and-” He inhales harshly, as if he’s struggling for air, “you’ve seen me angry and violent.”

He remembers it vividly, the feeling he had, when he woke up with a weight on his chest so heavy he couldn’t breathe, only to notice seconds later that he was being held at knifepoint, to see Bucky’s wild, distraught eyes. Like he wasn’t even himself. Yeah, Steve was scared, for a second. And then, he just got so unbelievably sad. 

“And you didn’t run,” he concludes, finally, his voice tight with emotion.

Maybe he knows.

“No,” Steve says, and he takes Bucky’s hand. “No, I didn’t. And I won’t. Ever.”

“You know, I- I don’t think that I’m worth it.” His fingers curl into Steve’s palm. They’re sweaty. “All of your affection, and your time, your-” He stops and shakes his head with a laugh. “All your fucking effort. But, clearly, we don’t see eye to eye here.”

A held breath leaves Steve’s chest. “No, we clearly don’t. You’re worth all of it. Mostly, you _deserve_ all of it.”

“If you say so.” Bucky shrugs. “I mean I don’t _get_ it. I can’t even begin to understand why you feel that way. You seriously could have _anyone_ else.” He gives a small smile, his eyes wandering over Steve’s shoulders. “But here we are.” A sigh. “Bet this isn’t really what you signed up for when you invited me out for coffee.”

Steve shakes his head vigorously. “Bucky. No. When I did that, I was a hundred percent sure of what I was doing. I knew that _K9’s for Wounded Warriors_ specialize on PTSD service dogs. I knew very much what I signed up for. I wouldn’t want anyone else. I want _you._ ” The last part just slips out, Steve winces when he hears the words spill out, because this is a delicate matter and he shouldn’t just run around, blare out his feelings as soon as he has the chance to, because this is how he ruins things _every single time._

Bucky’s hand slip from his, and Steve wants to cling to it. He wants to say _wait, I didn’t mean it that way._ He’s fragile, suddenly. Half a foot smaller and almost 100 pounds lighter.

But instead of getting up, or averting his eyes with discomfort at those words, Bucky smiles, takes his and Steve’s coffee that was warm in his other hand, puts them both back into the bag, and then places bag and the box with donuts on the ground next to the bed.

“What- what are you doing?” Steve asks, his voice small.

“Well,” Bucky says nonchalantly, “I don’t want hot coffee burning me, or you, when I kiss you.” He licks his lips and throws him a questioning look. “If that’s okay.”

“That’s totally okay,” Steve gets out, his heart racing.

Bucky tilts his head with a smile, the pink frosting still in the corners of it. He leans in, breath warm on Steve‘s lips. Hesitates.

Steve‘s heart promptly decides to start dancing. The tension is unbearable.

But Bucky has to make this move. Steve told him what he wants, now it's Bucky's turn to decide if he wants that too. 

When their lips finally meet, it’s like Steve’s whole fucking world gets turned around.

Bucky smells and tastes like bitter coffee and sweet donut. It’s a good combination. He’s warm, and soft, and everything and nothing Steve imagined like.

At first, it’s deliberately slow, as if Bucky is still testing, trying. As if he isn’t completely sure of what he is doing here. For a tiny second, the thought that Bucky might really not know what he is doing crosses his mind, but then it gets clouded and Steve can’t think anymore. Bucky’s hands find the collar of Steve’s tee, and he pulls on it, before one hand slips into his neck, and runs through his short hair.

Steve’s body just lights up, goosebumps traveling over his whole skin as he pushes his fingers into Steve’s hair, nose pressing into Bucky's cheek, his chest is shaking, begging him to speed up, drown himself in the feeling.

Bucky hums happily, breaks into a smile for a second, before he goes in again, moving his lips against Steve’s.

Just like that, it’s all over like his first kiss and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with his hands. He wants to touch Bucky so badly, feel his skin and make him feel _so good,_  but he had explicitly said that he didn’t want that.

His knees go week, even though he is sitting, as Bucky’s tongue tentatively touches Steve’s lips, asking for entrance, and when the next kiss is more open-mouthed, they meet in the middle.

Steve is _fucked._ He‘s utterly fucked.

With his whole chest growing hot out of pure desire, he finally grabs Bucky‘s face, feels muscles and tendons and bones move right under the pads of his fingers. One hand finds his jaw, the other pushes long hair out of the way, behind his ear, and Bucky sighs into the kiss, as if he‘d just been waiting for Steve to do that. The sound sends sparks into his stomach and a shiver on his skin. The kiss picks up pace, when the hand on Steve’s shirt drops down, fingertips trailing over his chest. Steve can’t feel his toes anymore.

“Holy shit,” Bucky whispers in a small breathing break, but goes right in again, lips moving against Steve’s, and _shit,_ if he isn’t in fucking heaven right now, he has no idea either. He’s floating in it, burning up from inside, soaking up every single touch with every cell of his body.

He wants to stay like this forever, until his lungs are screaming for air, until his skin burns, until he catches fire.

But Bucky has other plans.

Because Bucky is finally aware that he has no choice, no say in this anymore. This isn’t a decision to make, not anymore. The adventurous, confident side of him comes back, bursts through the door with a loud announcement, and it _wants._ It’s almost drowning him, how much Bucky wants this now, like a fucking tidal-wave rushing over him. Bucky _wants._

Shirt off.

He wants to touch Steve’s skin. Feel muscles and bones under his fingertips, a jumping heartbeat and heavy breathing under his palm, Steve’s body heat on his own skin.

“Take your shirt off,” he manages to demand between the quickly deepening kisses, “shit, _now._ ”

Steve complies without any comment, throws the shirt somewhere far away in the room, and has barely a second left until Bucky’s adventurous self decides that it not only wants to feel skin on skin, but also have even more control over the situation. Demanding adventurous Bucky wants Steve under him, while Bucky’s hands explore the shape of Steve’s body, and his tongue the shape of his mouth. So he pushes him back, Steve softly falling onto the mattress, Bucky crawling over him, and he‘s just so full of heat and desire and happiness that it‘s momentarily overwhelming.

He is _happy._

Bucky thinks he might’ve never been happier in his life.

His train of thought gets halted by Steve’s hands grabbing his wrists and bringing them down to his chest. And Steve’s body is a mountain range, hills and valleys everywhere, bundled muscle moving under his fingertips, the heat of his skin on Bucky’s palms. He leans down, finds his mouth again, open, inviting his tongue in.

Bucky might actually explode any second now.

It’s so much better than he imagined.

Yet, it’s nothing like he ever experienced.

And Bucky‘s had plenty of experience, but nothing that could be compared to this, to this state of almost delirious bliss, realizing that this is all he ever wanted and that he can _have_ it.

Steve groans into Bucky’s mouth when he shifts his body and their hips meet. Very suddenly, with that sound and that movement, Bucky notices, that the lack of libido isn’t a problem or even a lack anymore.

But before he can act on it, roll his hips in just the right way and make Steve emit that sound again, the sides of their faces get licked by something that suspiciously smells like dog. He pulls away, sitting up, his hands still on Steve’s chest.

Sunshine is standing next to the bed, tail wagging, and licking Steve’s face all over. He’s laughing, trying to get the dog away from him, pushing his head, but Sunshine doesn’t move a single inch. “Buddy, it’s all good,” he laughs, “I’m not in pain, oh my god, Sunshine!” The noise attracts Lucy, who jumps on the bed and joins all of them, jumping and tail wagging and gets so excited that they all end up in a ball of entangled limbs and fur, the human part of that ball laughing, unable to trade kisses without getting kissed by their dogs.

It’s funny, and weird and awkward and it totally kills the moment, but that’s okay.

The manage to get their hands together, both dogs on the bed now, Sunshine lying tail wagging on Steve, and Lucy between him and Bucky. Fingers slip in between fingers, and Steve smiles underneath 60 lbs of pure golden fluff.

“Hey,” he says, when everybody has calmed down. “I liked that.”

“That mess?” Bucky asks with a chuckle. “Too much dog saliva involved, in my opinion.”

“No,” Steve laughs, making Sunshine lick his neck, “no, you dumbass. The kissing. I liked kissing you.”

Bucky inhales sharply and lets out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I liked that too. Dunno how we did without it.”

“Seems impossible now,” Steve smiles.

“Totally.”

“I wish you would be closer, but, alas, my dog still thinks I am in trouble, because my heart can’t seem to slow down.”

“You’re so fuckin’ cheesy.”

“You like that, though.”

Bucky smiles and closes his eyes, morning sun shining bright and warm onto his face. He does, indeed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus christ this is nearly 18k words. i have no idea how that happened.  
> SO let’s address the elephant in the room, shall we? Who actually IS becca’s boyfriend/fiancée? I mean, haven’t you been asking yourself? Mystery man…
> 
> Fun fact: i have a document where i paste all my the ideas/scenes that don’t make it into this fic for whatever reasons (too dramatic/too out of character/too dumb), and it’s a whopping 30k words long. Like. what the heck. I have three versions of the kiss in there, as well as two different versions of how bucky and steve met. I don’t even know why i keep them, lol
> 
> Also the sentence “There is no expiration date on the process of healing” is a quote from Linda from my favorite show Lucifer! You should watch it, it’s super funny, has great character developments and main character Lucifer is bi/pan! It’s on netflix, at least in the netherlands.
> 
> Aaand, disclaimer ahead for the coming chapters if someone was expecting it: this will not have any kind of explicit sex scenes. I decided against that for two specific reasons - which is that i firstly don’t want the focus on that, this fic is about bucky’s recovery. and secondly, the ultimate step in a relationship is not sex. Not everything’s about sex, and not everyone likes having sex, for whatever reasons that might be. (My bucky isn’t ace tho, he’s just highly uncomfortable with sex due to his self-confidence issues, and that is 100% okay.) doesn't mean i won't mention it, tho.


	8. water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another disclaimer (man, bucky is one problematic character), bucky will say something biphobic in the last third of this chapter. dont give up on him yet tho! its not on purpose and he doesnt mean it the way he says it. he will explain it. no worries. 
> 
> for those that experience any form of dissociation and get triggered by descriptions of it, there is a scene that features it pretty heavily in this chapter. skip down to the end notes, where i will let you know at which lines it begins, and ends.
> 
> (song recommendation! ["vancouver waves" by august and after](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9WFIUDLbS4). i have also made a [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/lhannanas/playlist/4H63GxmSKRYxWo5UArHXGw?si=y3wwCrTrSHKvPMOYzRHV4Q) that includes all the recommendations, and a few other songs that i have listened to while writing this fic. check it out, if you feel like it. the link works on mobile too.)

 

He calls Natasha pretty much the moment that Steve and Sunshine have left the house, Steve whistling and smiling that stupid, dumb, dorky smile that will instantly make Bucky’s day perfect.

And it is perfect already, it only got better from the minute that both of their dogs had finally calmed down and left the bed, and they had kissed again. Not as passionately, not with that much heat or desperation, no, just lying next to each other, carefully tracing fingers over chests and necks and shoulders, trying to figure out which touch feels best.

Then they had some real breakfast, sat down at the table, with their arms brushing against each other, their toes touching their ankles, and again, they kissed. They did the dishes and kissed again, next to the open dishwasher, pressed against the kitchen counter, hands in hair and on hips, wondering out loud how they had made it this far without. Again, in the bathroom, with toothpaste tingling on their tongues, giggles forming between them, when they got dressed for the day, and one of them breathed about how beautiful the other is, and when they went downstairs and said goodbye.

So when Steve leaves, with this dreamy expression, and that huge smile, closes the door behind him with one last look at Bucky and says “see you later”, Bucky sits down on the third step of the stairs, drops his head into his arms, and just smiles for a very long time.

He’s light, floating a little, and he wouldn’t have ever thought he’d feel this way again. Lucy wiggles her head between his face and his arms, and he pets her, gives her a kiss on her nose, and then pulls out his phone.

“Make it quick,” Natasha snarls as she picks up, “I just started the beginners' practice.”

“We kissed,” he smiles, his face lighting up, and he doesn’t know why the hell it is. It’s Nat. She knows about all his weird habits and kinks. “We kissed. So many times. Jesus. _Nat._ ”

She responds with a groan, and mutters out a “Finally” before she adds, “I couldn’t take your pathetic whining anymore.” Something in the background clatters, and he can imagine her glaring at one of the kids she teaches. “Come over. I need to hear _all_ the details. And why you had this sad, mopey face this morning.”

“I just-”

“Come over,” she says, leaving no room for objection. “Bring gym clothes.”

“Nat,” he begins, _I’m not going to do ballet,_ he wants to say, but she cuts him off again.

“It’s the Jujutsu class. Don’t worry,” she goes on and Bucky wonders once again if she is she can read his thoughts. It would explain a lot of things. “But I won’t have you staying on the sidelines doing nothing while I have to handle ten toddlers kicking each other in the face. Not happening. Now haul your ass over here.” She hangs up, and Bucky is still smiling. He has never been this happy.

So he gets up, gives Lucy a firm head rub, and goes upstairs to look through Steve’s wardrobe. He has his own small section, just because it got unavoidable - his washed clothes had to go somewhere, Steve wouldn’t tolerate them just lying unfolded and messy in laundry baskets; when he looks for anything suitable, he realizes that he’s out of clean sweatpants again, so he just steals a pair of Steve’s. They’re more or less the same clothing size, pants fit them both almost perfectly, Steve’s shirts that hug snugly around his chest are a bit baggy on him, but his own are too, so it’s not much of a difference. He stuffs everything into his backpack, gets Lucy on a leash, takes the spare key from the coat hooks and then as he’s about to leave, he gets a message from Steve.

**_Remember to take your meds._ **

He’s got to be honest, he really almost forgot about his decision with the medication. Hurrying into the kitchen, where the three orange pill bottles are still standing neatly next to the salt and pepper shakers, as if it was equally normal to have both things in the kitchen, he looks at the labels, all addressed to _James B. Barnes,_ but can’t remember for the love of God which one was the antidepressant.

His phone buzzes in his jeans pocket. **_Celexa is the one you’re looking for,_ ** Steve texts, **_Rozerem is for your insomnia._ ** And right after that, the blushing kissing emoji follows.

Bucky looks at it for a few seconds, can’t help smiling like an idiot at it.

It’s just a stupid fucking emoji, but Steve finally got convinced to use the normal illustrated emojis, not the one with the noses he always types out, and now he’s sending him kisses. It’s just a stupid fucking emoji, but for some reason, Bucky realizes again, this is not terrifying at all. It feels so normal. So domestic.

 **_what would i do w/o u,_ ** he types, the smile not leaving his lips.

 **_Forget you brain altogether, probably._ ** Another kissing emoji.

~~~

He comes home with his muscles aching, his skin sweaty, his shirt clinging to his chest. He drags himself upstairs and makes a stop at the bedroom, falls backwards onto the made bed, just letting himself rest for a few seconds before he will head to the shower. He texts with Sam, like he has all morning, and right when he’s about to get up and get the sweat washed off him, the front door opens, keys clinking against each other, Steve humming a song under his breath. He can hear him take off Sunshines vest and collar, and then he comes upstairs, still humming.

“Oh, hi,” he says surprised when he finds Bucky in the bedroom. “I didn’t know you were back already.”

“I’ve been for a while,” Bucky admits.

Steve sits down on the bed next to him and smiles his beautiful, trademark liquid sunshine smile. “You had a good time with Nat?”

The need to reach out and touch Steve’s skin, feel the softness and heat on his own, suddenly becomes overwhelming. “Yeah, I- um, actually managed to, you know, move my body.”

“You look like it,” Steve chuckles, and gives into Bucky’s need, fingers running over Bucky’s face to push hair out of it. He lowers himself down, beds his head down right next to Bucky’s, and gazes into his eyes like Bucky might be the most precious thing he’s ever seen. “Is it okay if I say that I missed you?”

Bucky knits his brows with a confused smile. “Why should that not be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says, and then elaborates, “I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“You’re not,” Bucky assures him, and lets his own fingers rest on Steve’s shoulder. “And I missed you too.”

“That’s nice to hear.” Steve is still smiling, wide and bright, and Bucky thinks about kissing him. Deliciously slow, like he’s taste testing ice cream. Take in every flavor and let it melt on his tongue. Maybe Steve can read his thoughts, because he slowly says, “You can, you know.”

“I can what?” Somehow, he wants to hear Steve say it. See how it slowly rolls off his lips and settles into the space between their mouths.

“Kiss me,” Steve says, but it doesn’t quite sound how Bucky imagined it. Maybe he can get him to say it as a demand, a wish. Maybe then it will sound closer to what he thought it would. “I know you want to. You make that face.”

“What face?” he asks, running his fingers along Steve’s collarbone.

“ _That_ face,” his blonde chuckles. “You’ve been making it all week.”

“I have?”

“Constantly,” Steve teases with his smile breaking into a grin. It shows off his perfect teeth, and for a second, a thought about those perfectly lined teeth sinking into his skin crosses his mind. And then he buries it, deep, because he _can’t_ think about Steve making him feel good. The kissing is already so much more than he deserves.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks when Bucky doesn’t answer, or kiss him.

He lies. “It’s so much better than I remembered.” Bucky lets the pads of his fingers trail the creases in Steve’s dress shirt. Which is not untrue, per se, it _is_ better than he remembered, _easier_ even.

“What, kissing?” Steve’s eyes flicker to Bucky’s moving fingers. “Intimacy?”

“Yeah. I- um… haven’t. You know. In a while. A few years.” For some reason, it’s hard to admit.

“Haven’t what?”

“Kissed anyone,” Bucky clarifies, not meeting Steve’s eyes. “Or, uh... you know.”

And apparently Steve does know what Bucky means, because he pulls him close, so that his head rests in the crook of his neck, and he can smell Steve’s perfume. “That’s okay,” Steve mumbles, and his hands find Bucky’s back. His shirt is still sticking to his skin, he realizes. “I told you. We do what you’re comfortable with.”

He remembers the talk they had the evening before, where his tongue got loosened by alcohol and he couldn’t stop his mouth from saying things that he didn’t intend to say, at least not at this point, not in that situation. “I’m just-” He takes a deep breath. “This is enough. For now.”

“That’s okay,” Steve repeats, and his lips touch Bucky’s hairline. “That’s totally okay.”

And although Steve seems to understand, without Bucky elaborating any further, he feels like he owes Steve at least an explanation. He waited for so long.

“It’s not about you.” He closes his eyes, and just enjoys the way their bodies fit together like this. “It’s really not. I mean, you’re… you’re _stunning._ And you have... an amazing body.” Steve’s heartbeat thrums against his cheek. It’s just slightly elevated. Do Bucky’s words affect him? “So it’s really not about you. It’s just that I-” _hate myself so much that I can’t permit myself even the slightest bit of pleasure, because this body harmed, this body ended lives, this body inflicted pain._ It doesn’t deserve passion, or lust, or desire. _He_ doesn’t deserve passion, or lust, or desire. “I don’t deserve it,” he concludes his thoughts, “because of what I did.”

“I understand,” Steve says, and it’s not like when his therapist says it, to show compassion or let him know that he’s not alone with these thoughts and feelings, no, when Steve says it, it’s heartfelt, and he _means_ it. He understands, because he relates. It’s stupid, butBucky forgets sometimes. That Steve was in the army too. That he probably lived through similar things, that they have shared life experience and that Steve will be no stranger to Bucky’s thoughts.

“I really do,” he says against Bucky’s hair, hot breath hitting his scalp, “I’ve also done horrible things.” He presses another kiss on the parting of his hair. “But it doesn’t mean that I don’t deserve to have this. Or you, or this moment. Or feeling good.” And then he adds, “but I don’t want to convince you. This is enough. We'll go as slow as you want to.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything, he just breathes in Steve’s scent, and enjoys the fingers on his back drawing patterns into his shirt.

After a while, of them just silently lying in each other's arms, Steve suddenly raises his voice, it vibrates against Bucky’s cheek and his chest, startles him just for a fraction of a second. “You smell nice.”

Bucky scoffs. “Like unwashed, sweaty man?”

“I don’t mind,” Steve mumbles, “I don’t mind that at all.”

“Ew.”

He chuckles, a shiver over Bucky’s skin. “Just let me at least try and be romantic.”

“You are, right? A romantic?”

Bucky can feel the lips turn into a smile. “Yeah, I’m a _sucker_ for romance,” Steve confirms, and then quickly adds, “does that bother you?”

“What? No. Of course not.” He thinks for a moment. “I don’t know if I am. Anymore. A romantic, I mean.”

“Were you before?” Steve asks, and he sounds curious.

First of all things, Bucky was a smug asshole. Cocky and self-confident to a point where he would get what he wanted just with a smile. Bucky turned heads around, and he enjoyed it. He bathed in attention, whoever it came from. He was a flirt, practically just smooth-talked his way through his teen years and continued that way in college. He really needed a paper extension? Got an extra two days just by fluttering his eyelashes and smiling the right way. Bucky wanted a drink but was broke? He’d just give a guy a doe-eyed look and a seductive smirk, and he’d get drinks and maybe even laid that night.

 _So many one night stands._ That pretty much cancels out the romance, doesn’t it? When touch, words, and sex start becoming tactical, they stop being romantic, right?

“Not really,” he concludes his thoughts. “Flirtatious, though.”

“Pretty sure that’s not lost yet,” Steve chuckles. “Just give it a try.”

Bucky thinks for a moment, and then laughs once, before he says, “I’d love to get beard burns by you.”

“Maybe when I don’t have a job interview the next day. Because I really need to shave.”

“Yeah, you look like a caveman,” Bucky grins. “Better get rid of that look. Also, you need to prepare for that interview.”

“Just five more minutes with you here, yeah?”

“Sounds good,” he agrees and pushes himself up a little bit, so he can look at his blonde again. “Hey. You know what would also be good?”

“If you’d kiss me? Yeah, that be pretty awesome.”

“I was _just_ thinking about that,” Bucky smirks.

“Yeah I know, you make that face,” Steve answers. “Less talking, please.”

With a smile still on his lips, he tips his head forward, and they kiss, slowly, maybe a little like taste testing ice cream, letting it melt on their tongues.

~~~

Steve shaves in the evening, and Bucky gets painfully reminded that Steve has dimples when he smiles and that it makes him just so much more beautiful. When they kiss, and Steve complains about Bucky’s stubble being as rough as sandpaper, he rolls his eyes and stalks off into the bathroom, avoids the mirror while he spreads shaving foam on his face. And then Steve joins him when Bucky curses as short, sharp pain surges into his skin when he cuts himself right above his Adam's apple.

So Steve takes over, doesn’t ask, just holds out his hand, a pleading smile curling around his lips. He’s careful, doesn’t press into Bucky’s skin more than necessary, but he’s also quick and efficient, doesn’t linger in one place too long, doesn’t take his time. Maybe like he can’t wait to see Bucky clean shaven.

When he’s done and has washed his face, and comes up from the sink, cold water still on his skin, Steve rushes forward, lips crashing into Bucky’s mouth. The back of his head hits the mirror with a dull thump, and Steve’s hands close around his head, his thumbs resting at the corner of his jawline, supporting it almost, maybe pressing just the right way so he can direct Bucky’s movement. It’s messy, full of desire, and Bucky has to steady himself with his hands on the wet edge of the sink, so he can hold up against his passionate blonde.

Saliva gets smeared down onto Bucky’s chin when Steve’s tongue traces the crease in it and then moves under the edge of his jaw, lingering over a specific spot for a second, before he descends his way to Bucky’s neck. And he can’t help it, he thinks about it again, just for the tad of a second, and it’s like Steve _knows._

Lips join the tongue, for a second it’s a kiss that Bucky leans into out of reflex, turns his head to give Steve better access, but then it transcends, teeth scratch recklessly over his skin and sink into it, tongue flat against the undisturbed patch in between, and he hollows his cheeks and _pulls_ on his skin.

It will leave a bruise, the way that it has him moaning, first his name, _Steve,_ and then the Lord's just tumbles out right after it. For all that Bucky knows, in this moment they are the same.

His composure crumbles and shakes synchronized with his knees, and he’s glad he has his hands on the sink because _is Steve really just sliding his leg between Bucky’s thighs?_

A fuse blows in his brain, triggering a short circuit somewhere in a region that is responsible for self-preservation - there’s no other explanation for what he does next.

Because with his name (and maybe _His_ name too, it’s all so blurry) stuck in his throat, almost choking on it as he struggles to manage to keep breathing and simultaneously speaking, he’s grinding down on Steve’s leg, every single cell on fire, burning him from inside and outside, _begging_ to do it again, _begging_ to continue, make himself feel good, while Steve sucks and bites on his neck.

It wasn’t Steve’s intention, he realizes, when the blonde pulls from his neck with a sharp inhale, a wet smack sounding from his lips leaving the sore skin. He says his name, once, breathless but with determination behind it, and Bucky doesn’t know what it’s supposed to mean.

He can barely stand straight, his legs shaking, his hands gripping into the slippery ceramic. He can barely _comprehend_ what happened, there’s still a few drops of water on the right side of his face, rolling down his jaw, and then down his throat. His eyelids are as heavy as iron, and even if he could open them, he can’t look at Steve now. It would just happen all over again, that he is sure of.

“Buck,” Steve says again, and Bucky can hear his frantic breathing, almost similar to Bucky’s, hectically lifting his chest.

“Sorry,” he finally manages, and he doesn’t even recognize his own voice. He can’t remember picking out jeans this tight.

“Let’s keep it slow,” Steve suggests, the words short and with pauses in between, matching his choppy breaths. Not too convincing.

And it’s what Bucky wanted, he wanted slow, he wanted to get a hang of things, he wanted to just… ease into this.

But then - how could he have known that just _kissing_ feels so good, that this is already so much more than he had permitted himself to experience, and that it’s so god damn addicting? That he needs more of it?

“You attacked me,” he now accuses, his breathing still ragged, but he can finally peek at Steve with one eye.

He’s got a nice shade of red on his cheeks, not from embarrassment, but probably from the same heat that Bucky had and still has in his veins. He’s also smiling like he can’t quite believe what just happened.

“It’s your fault,” he says, runs a hand through his short hair, and then glances at Bucky’s neck, “for looking so damn delicious.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky laughs while pulling a face and scrunching his nose, and he touches where Steve’s lips had been just moments before. His skin burns. He’s still short of breath, and his heart is speeding in his chest like it might want to qualify for the Olympics.

“All in its time.” It’s meant to be teasing, but it almost sounds like a promise.

“Slowly,” Bucky agrees.

“Yeah, or you give this grandpa a heart attack,” Steve jokes, and Bucky laughs.

“You started it,” he insists once again, and finally his hands relax, his knees more stable. He reaches up to where his head met with the mirror behind him and notices a dull throb when his fingertips run over it. “Ouch,” he makes, pulls a face and throws a sulky look at his favorite blonde.

“Does your head hurt?”

“Yes, asshole, it actually does.”

“Want me to kiss it better?”

Bucky considers it for a moment, then drops his hand and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Don’t you dare come close to me. You did enough damage already.”

Putting up his hands defiantly, Steve laughs, dimples and all, creases around his eyes and he couldn’t be prettier. “Yessir.”

“I‘m a Sergeant. You don‘t have to do that, you outrank me” he can’t help correcting, and Steve’s eyebrows shoot up.

“By a lot, actually,” Steve grins.

“Doesn’t mean you’re in charge here. Not happening, mate.”

“Oh c’mon,” Steve complains instantly, throwing his hands up in the air, mock lament thick in his voice, “what more do I have to do so you realize I like you? After everything I've done and I’m still getting _mate_ zoned.”

“You could get me an ice pack and I might think about it again,” Bucky says and rubs the back of his head with a dramatic face.

Steve scoffs. “C’mon, it doesn’t hurt that bad.”

“You don’t even know how bad it hurts,” he pushes himself off the counter, “could be broken.” He lets his fingers run along Steve’s chest and down his arm to take his hand as he walks past him.

“Can’t break what’s already broken,” Steve deadpans.

“Hey, my head’s not broken,” Bucky complains.

“Nah, just a lil’ messed up.” Fingers slip between his own and curl into his palm.  

“Just a lil’ messed up,” Bucky confirms with a smile.

~~~

Steve gets the job. Of course he does, he‘s brilliant and smart, his art is straight up museum-worthy. He comes back home with his face all flushed and heated up, he was wearing a tie this morning, which he has now loosened, and he’s messed up his hair, probably by running his hands through it on the subway ride. It almost looks like he had a great hook up (for a second Bucky imagines it was his doing, Steve all disheveled with pink cheeks and then buries that thought with all those similar others), but no, he’s just excited about his new job. He’s jumping through the living room, talking with Sharon on the phone, laughing and telling her every single detail about the interview. For a few long minutes, Bucky is terribly jealous. He doesn’t even know why, Steve told him all of this just moments before, but now, seeing or at least hearing the way they are interacting, Bucky is jealous. (It’s nothing to be jealous about because Bucky now _knows_ that Steve loves him, but still, that tiny, doubtful voice in his head asks “does he though?” and Bucky feels venom in his stomach.)

“Yeah, that’s a great idea!” Steve exclaims, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Buck, Sharon wants to invite us out - a few drinks, to celebrate the new job.”

Before Bucky can answer, Steve goes on, “yeah, right, we should totally ask the others too.” He laughs, clearly at something that Sharon said, and pure spite flares up in Bucky’s stomach. “You’re right. If Tony’s even in town. Wasn’t he in Dubai just last week?”

Steve throws a glance at Bucky, smiling wide. “Ha, yes. Uh, do you want me to ask the others, and you check if we can get a table? - Amazing. Really. Thanks a lot, Sharon.” He hangs up shortly after, and then falls down on the couch next to Bucky, snaking an arm around his hips, to pull him close.

“Hey,” he says, placing tiny kisses up his arm, “we’re going out this evening. Good with you?”

Bucky sighs. “I dunno, Steve. I’m not sure if I can.”

His lips run over the sleeve of his shirt, and then press a kiss to his neck where the fabric ends. “Wednesday went fine,” he reminds him, and another pair of kisses follows up Bucky’s neck. “Well, apart from that one incident.” His breath hits just below Bucky’s ear, and concentrating on his words is suddenly incredibly hard.

“It was just because… I- uh-” And then he can’t talk any further, because Steve’s teeth catch his earlobe, giving it an experimental tuck.

“Yeah?”

“Because… I’m stupid.”

Lips meet Bucky’s cheek, and then Steve’s face is only inches from his own. He’s smiling, still excited, endearment in his eyes. “You’re not stupid. Not at all. You’re smart and beautiful. Anyway. Remember what you already achieved this week-”

“Don’t you think we shouldn’t push my luck?” Bucky interrupts.

“I think we really should.” Steve’s head lolls to the side, and he pushes his lower lip forward. “C’mon, Buck. Please. I’d love for you to join.”

“I’m really not sure about this.”

“C’mon. Bucky. _Please._ Pretty, pretty please.” His eyes get irresistible to look away from, and a smile escapes Bucky’s lips involuntarily.

“You’re fucking ridiculous, Rogers,” he mutters, fondness swelling up in his chest.

“Yeah, I know I am,” his blonde answers, and gives Bucky a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. “Will you join? Don’t make me beg.”

“Steve, really, I don’t know if that’s too much.”

“I’ll give you something in return. Whatever you want. C’mon, please, Buck. I am so happy I got that job. I know I haven’t let it come across, but the last two months were in a pain in the ass and I hated going to work. I really wanna celebrate that liberation with you.”

Bucky’s brows furrow. “Whatever I want?”

Steve laughs, eyes flicking from left to right, and then he nods. “Yeah. _Anything_ you want.”

“Mh.” Bucky reaches out to touch Steve’s chin, and he angles his head upwards and a little to the side, looking at all edges and soft lines. His skin is soft as silk and Bucky can’t decide if he likes it better this way, or with a scruffy, scratchy beard. “Mh. Okay. I go with you, you owe me a favor. Anything I want. Deal?

“Yes,” Steve confirms, eyes half-lidded, sounding like he’s trying to hide that he’s short of breath. “Deal.” His pupils have dilated, and Bucky notes it, for at a later juncture.

He lets go of Steve’s chiseled chin and smiles, content with what he just discovered. “What are you wearing?”

“Uh… too much?” Steve offers with a sheepish smile.

“This evening, you dumbass.”

“Why, you wanna do couple coordinated outfits?” Steve’s fingers climb up Bucky’s arm, settle on the space where neck and shoulder meet, stretching into the back of his neck to play with a few loose strands from Bucky’s bun.

He tries to not get thrown off by the “couple” and answers, “No, I wanted to know which one of your shirts I can steal.”

Steve chuckles, his eyes dropping down to Bucky’s mouth for a moment. “I don’t know. Uh, just something random. You can choose your outfit first.” Then he adds, softly, “I like it, when you do that. Wear my clothes.”

“I like wearing them too,” Bucky smiles, getting goosebumps when Steve’s fingers in his neck scoop upward, to bury themselves in his hair. “They smell like you.”

Steve doesn’t answer, just smiles wide, and then presses his lips against Bucky’s, carefully, as if he doesn’t want to break the gentleness of the moment. And Bucky doesn’t want it to break either, so he doesn’t reply with moving his lips, like he’s dying to, he lets Steve retreat, just enough so they are still in the same breathing space.

“God, Bucky,” Steve says, his voice raw with emotion, and Bucky can almost imagine which words he wants those two to follow.

~~~

The bar is loud, crowded and dark, and there is a flashing neon sign (it says “Happy Hour”) just behind the counter. To top that, the only exit has a curtain in front of it, and he can see from over at the entrance that the lighting in the bathroom is dark blue.

It takes _a lot_ of willpower for Bucky to not instantly flee the moment they go inside.

But Steve has his arm around his shoulder, pulling him in, their hips bumping awkwardly into each other while they walk to the booth that Steve has seen his friends in.

They look weirdly mismatched, his friends. There’s a guy that introduces himself as Bruce, who wears a neat button down, but looks like he has never in his life gotten enough sleep, that other dude Scott has grease marks under his chin and on his clothes that nobody has brought to his attention, the blonde chick in a loose flannel with the hair put up in a neat ponytail Steve introduces as Sharon (oh, he can’t help but hate her a little bit about the way that Steve says her name), and last but not least comes Pepper, with strawberry blonde hair straightened and curled inwards at the ends to perfection, jewelry matching the color of her skirt, and her five inch heel stilettos matching her nail polish. She smiles just a little, but warmly, and Bucky can tell that she has her shit together. Which intimidates him more than upset looking Bruce. Bucky gets the feeling that it’s his resting face, and he can remotely relate.

They all hug Steve, Bruce and Scott over the table, Sharon and Pepper get up and when they do, they hug Bucky too, and heat rushes into his hands in waves, only to then switch to shivering cold freezing right in his core. It’s already too much. But he’ll pull through. He’ll make it, like he makes it through everything. For Steve.

They say stuff like “It’s so nice to finally meet you” or “Steve told us so much about you” and “good catch, Steve”, and Steve laughs at all that, bumps his and Bucky’s shoulders together, while Bucky is busy with staring at the wall opposite to him, trying really hard to not freak out.

The topic quickly switches to Steve’s new job and he laughs and tells away. Bucky concentrates on food he loves.

Pizza. Fries. Ice cream.

Someone asks when the job starts.

Cheese. Nachos. Pasta.

A waiter comes up and takes their orders. Weird drink names fall and Bucky thinks of avocado cream. Bananas. Sandwiches.

“I’m taking a Gin Tonic,” Steve smiles next to him, and then gently elbows Bucky in the ribs. “Coke good with you?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, hardly processing what Steve is saying.

Bagels. Apples. Potatoes.

“You don’t want something fancy?” Sharon asks with a smile. Her smile is nice and friendly. Bucky hates her a little more for that. “First round is on me, so no worries about the price.”

Bell pepper. Celery. Peanut Butter.

“I can’t drink alcohol,” Bucky says and his voice is monotone, even though he is trying hard to not make it sound dead. “Because of my medication.”

“Oh, sure, of course,” Sharon replies understandingly.

Pie. Kiwis.

They talk and laugh, someone kicks Bucky in the shin and apologizes instantly, Steve asks him something, and Bucky just answers with a “yeah”, hoping it will fit to his question. There’s a shrill, uncomfortable ringing in his left ear.

Pancakes. Waffles.

He thinks that he might be going deaf.

Maybe he _is_ going deaf? It’s so fucking loud in the bar, that is actually seems possible.

A part of Bucky jokes that he will now be compelled to finally learn sign language like Clint has been pressuring him to for years.

Cookies.

Then the ringing gets increasingly louder and he slowly starts to internally freak out over going deaf.

Chocolate.

Drinks arrive. They all clink glasses together, so Bucky does too, mumbles “cheers” when he can barely register Steve saying it, and then he’s lost.

Sounds just blend together into a garbled, blurred, murky mess, rushing past him like a riptide. Words get pulled with it, under and over, until it’s impossible to know where they came from and what they were supposed to mean.

Haziness starts crawling in from his peripheral vision, dimming the little light that was in the room, leaving a round vignette, narrowing down his visual field.

He tries blinking it away, focusing on a painting that he knew had a city skyline on it just moments ago, but now looks like the bottom of a swampy pond.

Blinks again, squeezes his eyes together, hard, but it doesn’t help. The vignette seems to only get bigger.

Maybe he is going blind too.

A second of hot panic surging through his veins, into his chest and hands, where his lungs tighten painfully and his stomach contracts harshly, but then there’s the moment where the parachute opens, and he’s safe.

Steve’s fingers find his thigh, and he leans over, breath brushing over his ear. “Are you okay?” he asks. His touch is far away. His voice even further.

“I’m fine,” he can hear himself saying, and it’s true. He’s okay.

Steve pulls back, and it’s almost like watching a movie, watching the main character move and speak. Steve nods to Bucky’s untouched coke, so he watches himself take a sip of it, feels himself smile.

Minutes pass, maybe two, maybe five, maybe thirty, and when looking back on it, Bucky won’t be able to tell what he is thinking about. If he is thinking anything. Or if he is just floating in his parachute, looking down at the busy world below him, taking it in from a safe distance.

It’s calm. Like looking out of a window on a train, or a car; everything's rushing by, you can’t focus on much because it’s either too far away, or it’s gone too fast, but it’s safe - safe and calm. Like floating in a parachute.

“So, Bucky,” someone says, and it almost sounds like they’re talking through water. He can’t tell their name, can’t really see their face, can’t make out whose voice it is. “How did you and Steve meet then?”

_Steve._

Right, he’s here too.

Bucky forgot about that.

He makes himself turn his head, and there he is. A little fuzzy at the edges, his face has lost a bit of depth, too many shadows, but yes, of course. He’s there.

Lips pull upward, he’s smiling, so Bucky lets himself smile too.

He remembers the question.

They met when Bucky felt similar to this. It was scarier, though. Colder.

Wet and sick.

Fragile and shaking.

 _No,_ Bucky thinks, no, that’s not right. Not quite. It was cold, but not wet. He was fragile, but not sick.

He can’t seem to remember right. It’s all so far away.

There was a dog. Or were it two dogs?

Someone else was there. Contrasting to white snow.

But that’s not true either. The snow can’t be right.

“Uh, in the park,” Bucky can hear himself saying, “with Sunshine.”

He’s looking at Steve, maybe for reassurance, maybe to check if he’s remembering right.

Steve’s smile widens, and for a second, when Bucky blinks, he’s clear, and beautiful. “Yeah, you asked for his name.”

Of course. He remembers now.

“You stopped me, and asked for his name, not for mine, though.” The back of his hand briefly touches Bucky’s arm. “Lucy, uh, that’s Bucky’s service dog,” he says to the person that asked, “was there too. Which is kind of how we got talking, right?” That was directed at him.

But then something pokes at the corner of his consciousness.

Lucy.

“Wait,” Bucky stops him, and he feels like he’s slurring. Is he slurring? It’s so hard to concentrate. “Where’s Lucy?” He blinks again, trying to get the sharp image of Steve’s face back.

He frowns, the shadows in his face get harder, and he says something to his friends that Bucky can’t register because he turns away doing so. Then he’s back, closer than before, close enough so Bucky can _see_ his face again.

“We dropped her and Sunshine off at Natasha’s place, remember? We decided to leave them because of the noise.” His hand reaches out, lies on his own, heavy and warm. He says something again, but it doesn’t reach him.

Oh, that is weird. Why can’t he remember that?

His parachute wobbles dangerously.

Concentrating gets even harder. He blinks, but the world just turns blurrier.

Is he underwater? Is that why he can’t breathe?

Is that why he can’t hear, why he can’t see?

Is he drowning?

Maybe he is.

Maybe he is drowning, and he didn’t notice.

Where’s the surface?

Is he swimming towards or away from it?

Maybe he swam in the wrong direction, the light fooling him. Shining and sparkling and reflecting, the surface seemingly just in reach, but in reality, he was just diving deeper, into his death.

But wait.

_Bucky._

Where is his parachute?

Is he falling?

Is there anything he can hold onto, grab, or reach for?

Or is he doomed to just hit the ground?

_Bucky._

Maybe he just did. Maybe he just hit it. Because something is burning and aching in his chest, and he can’t breathe. Maybe he’s dying. Maybe he’s dying and he didn’t notice.

Where is the sand coming from? The dirt that he can feel between his fingers?

Is it the ground on the bottom of the ocean? Did he swim in the wrong direction?

“Bucky.”

There’s his parachute. It’s alright, it was just windy, for a moment. It’s steady again, steadily floating. His legs are hanging in the air. He’s not drowning. There’s no sand. No water. Just air.

“Bucky, hey,” says his favorite blonde on this planet. “Are you dissociating?”

_Oh._

Well, that makes sense.

His favorite blonde waits for an answer.

Bucky has forgotten how to speak. Because a second ago his lungs were full of water. Sand between his teeth.

But wait. There’s just air.

“Yeah,” he manages.

His blonde’s fingers snake around his wrist, and there’s a short pang on his skin. The hair tie.

Bright light shines on his blonde’s face and it gets harder to recognize the features. The sharp edges, the straight lines.

“Okay, okay, um… uh, wait. I’m opening the notes on my phone. Um… okay. Take your shoes off.”

Yes, of course. The shoes. Grounding. He’s not floating. There’s a ground, right there, under his feet. How could he have thought he was floating?

He’s not wearing socks, and the ground is dirty, cold. Very real.

“Drink something.” A cold glass gets pushed to his hand. So he drinks. “Take one of the ice cubes into your mouth and chew on it.” He follows. He’s there, his favorite blonde. He’s guiding him. Helping him find the surface.

The ice burns on his tongue and the roof of his mouth. It cracks between his teeth. Very real.

“Does someone have chewing gum?” his blonde asks; fairly in the distance, Bucky remembers other people being there. He gets handed a glittery, silver strip.

Its content is sharp, spicy, stinging on his tongue. Very real.

Something on his wrist snaps again, and when he looks up, Steve’s face is clear. Strong edges, and soft shadows.

“You wanna go outside for a moment?” he asks, his hand is touching Bucky’s.

It’s familiar. Warm. Sweaty, a little. Very Real.

“My shoes,” Bucky objects.

“It’s okay, leave them off.”

Steve gets up, pulls Bucky with him. Some parts of the floor stick to his naked feet. Probably spilled drinks.

Outside, the asphalt is still hot from the sun. Bucky kneels down to touch it with his hands. Rough texture. They sit, leaning with their backs against a wall. Steve makes him list up blue things he can see, then reds. Then smells. Then noises.

Bucky doesn’t know how much time passes, but when he really notices the glow of the setting sun behind tall buildings and Steve’s hand in his own, it’s okay again. He made it out, just like that. He’s back in his body, he’s real.

“Sorry,” is the first thing he says - he really recognizes saying, and Steve sighs heavily.

“No, _I_ should be sorry. I ignored your worries, this afternoon. I pushed you.”

“You didn’t,” Bucky disagrees, and he leans on Steve’s shoulder. “I pushed myself. Which is good. I can’t always run away from these situations. You know it just fuels my anxiety.”

A kiss gets pressed to the top of Bucky’s head and if he wasn’t so exhausted he would smile. “But I shouldn‘t have let it get so bad. I’m sorry this is so uncomfortable for you.”

“It’s not,” Bucky says. “It’s really not. For a while it was good. Then…” He trails off; describing the feeling might trigger it again.

“Should we leave? They’ll understand.”

Bucky pulls his head up again, so he can look at Steve. “No - I don’t want you to leave because of me. Besides, it’s all fine now.”

Steve looks like guilt is eating him alive. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “This was such a bad idea.”

“It _wasn’t,_ ” Bucky reassures him. “Really. Don’t beat yourself up over it. I just dissociated. I didn’t like.. I dunno. Get injured or whatever.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again. He sounds like he’s about to cry. “Fuck, I’m… I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Bucky takes his face into his hands, runs his thumbs over his cheekbones. Brings their heads close together, so their foreheads are touching. “It’s not your fault, you hear me? I’m fine. You managed this all wonderfully. Like you always do. _Thank you._ ”

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, and if Bucky wasn’t so close to him, it would’ve drowned under the Friday night sounds around them. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

“It is _not_ your fault. Stop saying you’re sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Steve’s eyelids squeeze together, and then there’s a tear.

It’s the first time, that it happens. That Steve shows he’s vulnerable too.

Out of a reflex, an instinct, Bucky catches the tear with his lips.

They sit for ten more minutes, Steve’s head on Bucky’s shoulder this time, and Bucky’s hand in Steve’s hair.

~~~

So many first times now. The first pet name that reaches Bucky is when he comes back from his therapist appointment a week after Steve’s job interview and he can only lie on the sofa and be depressed. He spirals, even though Lucy plants herself on top of him and licks his face, puts her head in the crook of his neck. He texts Steve an hour after he comes back - an hour of lying there, doing nothing but staring at the ceiling.

He misses him terribly.

 **_im sad and lonely,_ ** he writes, **_can u come over?_ **

It’s selfish. He knows that.

It only takes two minutes until Steve replies, Bucky counts the seconds in his head because if he doesn’t concentrate on that, he’d be spiraling even further. **_I’m on my way, hang in there_** _,_ is the only thing the text says.

Bucky left the door unlocked and when Steve opens it only twenty minutes later Bucky has found twenty things he is grateful for. For each minute one thing. (A few of those are, for example, Steve’s patience, Lucy and her morning cuddles, his therapist, pancakes, sunlight on his skin, and many more.)

Because he has laid down so he could look out the window if he sat up, he can’t see Steve coming from behind until he’s kneeling, his face appearing over Bucky’s.

“Hi, baby,” Steve breathes, a hand reaching out to push a few strands of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. Bucky’s stomach drops at hearing the pet name. “Do you need a hug and a kiss?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answers, but somehow his voice cracks, and he’s crying.

It’s not the session, not really, not what they discussed or what Bucky learned about himself today, it’s not even the depression that opens the floodgates right now, it’s the way that Steve’s voice resonates in the room, and how he doesn’t ask _what’s wrong_ because nothing is wrong, but he asks for what Bucky needs. Because he _knows_ exactly what Bucky needs right now. It’s the way he says _baby_ and Bucky just feels at home.

Steve kisses him, from upside down, and Bucky’s limbs go weak, his head clouds. It’s hard to open his eyes even just a hint when Steve ends the kiss for a second, just to kiss him again, teeth awkwardly scraping against each other due to the angle. Lucy moves to the end of the couch, where she lies down on Bucky’s cold feet. His chest is shaking, but not from crying, his heart has picked up pace and his breath is out of rhythm, as if it’s trying to match Steve’s. They part after minutes of slow, deep kissing, tears still wet on his cheeks when Steve finally climbs onto the couch with him, picks him up in his big, strong arms and curls them together. And he kisses him again, as if he hopes that maybe, just maybe, it will take all of Bucky’s pain.

For a moment it does.

But then he remembers, that he never would’ve had this, hadn’t it been for the death of his friends. What an enormous, repulsive price to pay for these recklessly selfish feelings for Steve.

“Are you still lonely, baby?” Steve whispers against his lips, when they are plump, swollen, and feel raw from kissing.

“No,” he whispers back, using his sleeve to wipe down the remaining wet tears on his skin.

And Bucky realizes, that he wasn’t lonely in the first place.

~~~

Bucky wakes up in the late afternoon, when he can feel a weight shifting on the couch. He opens his eyes to see Steve placing himself on his knees between Bucky’s open legs, a steaming cup in his hands.

“Here, drink something,” he says softly and offers it to Bucky. It’s hot milk with honey, and Steve tastes like it when Bucky searches for his lips after taking a first sip of the drink. They put the cup on the coffee table, and get carried away with warm, open-mouthed kisses.

It’s easy now.

It was already easy to get lost in secrets and the meaningful late night conversations, where Bucky would forget the world around them still exists - and now they’ve added kissing to it. It took them a while to slow down from the excited, needy crash of lips; there was just so much to explore, so much to feel. There still is. But they have time and Steve isn’t going anywhere (at least for a while).

Lips whisper sweet nothings and run along bones and tendons and curves to leave careful claims on sensitive skin, and there isn’t anything else in this world but Steve. Only his beautiful, soft blonde, kissing him, holding him, right now.

When they break apart, because Steve urges Bucky between the kisses to drink his milk, it’s not hot anymore. Steve glances at the display of his phone and then looks at Bucky in awe. “It’s been almost twenty-five minutes.”

“Of us kissing?” Bucky asks, nipping at the lukewarm beverage. It’s still good. Steve made it, so it has to be. Everything Steve touches turns into glowing, beautiful goodness. Maybe even Bucky, at some point.

“Yeah,” Steve confirms, a surprised chuckle leaving his chest. He leans back, a hand resting on Bucky’s knee. “It’s ridiculous. Like I’m a teenager again.”

The brunette agrees without saying it out loud, just a slight nod, before he sips from the milk again. It _is_ ridiculous. And he also feels like a teenager. Like there is nothing more important than Steve. Like nothing else exists outside of their space. And maybe he is right. Maybe there is nothing more important than this man. Maybe there is nothing else but them.

“What a beautiful waste of time,” Steve smiles, his head dropping on the backrest, his eyes not leaving Bucky. “Would do it all over again.”

And Bucky smiles back faintly.

~~~

Steve orders in food when the sun goes down, even though Bucky says it’s okay if he goes to the convenience store for twenty minutes, but Steve doesn’t want to leave him. When he skips through the menu on his phone, he lets out a delighted squeal, and then exclaims, “they deliver _Ben and Jerry’s_ too!”

“Cool,” Bucky comments; it sounds sarcastic, not what he’d originally intended. “What flavors? They have Cookie Dough?”

“And Caramel Sutra,” Steve confirms with joy, his voice hopping up a couple halftones; it’s his favorite flavor of all times. He says it’s because of the caramel and the gooey, sticky sweet texture, but Bucky is pretty sure that the main reason it is his favorite is because of the innuendo.

They order fries and burgers with the ice cream and pass the wait with more kissing. Bucky hasn’t moved from the sofa except to use the toilet once, so when Steve straddles his lap again, he just lets himself sink into the familiar shape of the cushions, falls into the feeling of Steve all around him. They’ve finally found a rhythm that doesn’t produce too much friction, but still leaves them breathless. Bucky wants to take things slow, and Steve respects that. He leaves open-mouthed kisses on Bucky’s neck nevertheless, his tongue on Bucky’s pulsating carotid.

Breath moves like waves, curling around and trickling into skin underneath, some waves heavier than others, rushing forward with force behind them, some just slowly approaching, rolling over bones and hollows with soft murmurs. Some crash loudly, and they both tremble from it.

They get startled when the doorbell rings, and Steve hesitantly pulls himself from Bucky with a sigh, his skin sticking to Steve’s like wet sand.

He’d like to go to the beach with him, he thinks as he sits up and Steve makes his way to the door. The evening sun is shining low into the window and he wonders how it would feel on his naked body. Wonders what it would look like on Steve’s naked body.

~~~

Apparently, rules apply for the pet names.

 _Baby_ gets reserved for the times that Steve is earnest, or too close to raise his voice above a whisper, and for when he’s comforting and soothing.

 _Babe_ is for when he comes home, calls for him with anticipation in his voice, when he teases, and when he has to let a stranger passing by know that Bucky is his.

 _Sweetheart_ when he wants something, his voice dripping with honey, pleading to do the dishes, clean the kitchen, set the table for dinner.

 _Darling_ when he’s watched too much old British tv and won’t stop doing a bad accent, a laugh in his voice.

 _Honey_ in front of his friends, letting it sound domestic and perfectly normal, but with the intention of reminding everyone that they belong to each other.

But Steve stays _Steve._ Sometimes it turns into _Stevie,_ but nothing else. He stole all the good pet names, made them his own. Out of Bucky’s mouth they would sound obscene, so he doesn’t say them.

So Steve stays _Steve._

___

He tries his very best to keep all of the shit to himself. It doesn’t have to concern Bucky - he has enough on his own shoulders already. Steve can handle his shit by himself. Or with his therapist.

Steve has been quite successful in keeping his shit hidden and to himself. All of his bad days conveniently fall on the days that he doesn’t see Bucky, or if they (rarely) do fall on the days that he does see him, he just pulls himself together and gets the fuck over it. All of his bad nightmares happen when Bucky isn’t sleeping next to him. Some minor ones he gets anyways, but those are never on a scale that they would wake Bucky.

Bucky’s nightmares, in contrast, wake Steve every time. If it’s by the crying, the screaming, the violent kicking, or the frantic breaths, Steve will wake up. And he will be there.

He is Bucky’s rock.

He is his rock, and he will not give him any reason to believe that Steve can’t take half of the weight on Bucky’s shoulders onto his own. It’s not that he can’t. He can. He’s just pretty sure that Bucky will promptly deny Steve taking half of Bucky’s weight, and then proceed on taking half of Steve’s.

Bucky’s shoulders are heavy enough.

So Steve gets the fuck over his own shit, because Bucky doesn’t need to handle that too.

Until Steve can’t get the fuck over his own shit, because it jerks him awake, with a loud gasp for air, eyes wide open, hands fisting bed sheets. Chest trembling. Blood rushing.

He at least tries to keep his crying silent.

Sheets rustle.

“Steve?” Bucky rasps sleep drunken.

Sheets rustle again.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice breaking. “Go back to sleep, okay?”

In the blink of an eye, Bucky is next to him. Emitting warmth from his body. Smelling like Steve’s aftershave and shampoo, and a little bit like sweat. He’s still in his sleeping shirt, doesn’t take it off despite the oppressive heat in the bedroom.

Steve turns his head.

He can’t let Bucky see this.

He is _his rock._

“Hey,” his beautiful brunette says softly, but with confusion, “are you crying?”

“Just go back to sleep,” Steve answers, his voice wet and he hates it.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asks, and he puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder. It’s heavy. Grounding, in a way. “Why won’t you look at me?”

Steve tries really hard. He tries his very best to keep crying silently, wait it out until the anxiety ebbs away, but a few breaths are shaky and loud.

“Is it because you don’t want me seeing you cry?” Bucky asks.

“ _Fuck,_ please,” Steve replies pleading, “just ignore this and go back to sleep.”

Another hand lands on his other shoulder, they run down to his arms, until they meet at Steve’s chest, and he can feel Bucky pressing flush against his back, his head against Steve’s shoulder blades. He holds him in a tight grip, and Steve is thankful. The sobs don’t rattle through him that hard anymore now.

“I can’t ignore this, Stevie,” Bucky mumbles, and his voice vibrates at Steve’s back. “If you don’t want to explain, it’s okay. Just let me be there for you, the way you’re always there for me.”

Is Steve being unfair? Is it unfair to keep this from Bucky? To just shut that part out of their relationship and only let him see the happy Steve? To not give Bucky any chance to witness what Steve’s like when he isn’t perfect?

Maybe that is unfair, yes.

But it’s not like he has planned to never show Bucky this side of him, just… maybe not in the first five months. Not until Bucky can take it.

“I’m sorry,” he manages after a while, “I don’t want to... bother you with this.”

Bucky makes a sound that Steve can’t quite categorize into anything. Maybe it’s taunt. Then the head on his shoulder blades moves, and kisses get pressed up his spine, all the way to his hair.

“Stevie,” Bucky says, and it’s so soft, so full of emotion, that he tears up even more. “Stevie, you’re not bothering me. Why would you think that?”

“I don’t want you to have to deal with my mess,” Steve explains weakly.

“I’ll gladly deal with your mess,” Bucky answers, his breath on Steve’s neck. He kisses where it hits Steve’s skin. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

_Friends._

Yes, of course. That’s what friends are for.

He could ask, instead of assuming. He could.

But he doesn’t, because he feels like shit, and Bucky has seen him feel like shit, so he gets irrational and he doesn’t ask.

He assumes.

That Bucky doesn’t feel the same, that Bucky doesn’t want whatever they are to transcend, evolve into a steady relationship, that he doesn’t want to _be_ with Steve, that he doesn’t have feelings for Steve, that Bucky is fine with saying they’re just friends because he doesn’t realize how much it hurts Steve hearing that.

That Bucky doesn’t love him.

Had he asked, and not assumed, Bucky would’ve even answered his question. Had he asked “so, we’re only friends then?” Bucky would’ve replied that “we’re _also_ friends” and that he thinks “that’s important, in a relationship. That we’re _also_ friends.”

But Steve doesn’t ask, he assumes.

It’s a flaw that occurs whenever he is too upset to think rational, and it just _always_ makes his mood worse.

So he lets himself be irrational and get worse, and Bucky stays there, with his arms around Steve’s body, his head on his shoulder or his back. Holding him together. Pressing tiny, warm kisses onto his skin. Letting his fingers run over Steve’s chest.

After a while, it’s okay. The crying stops, the trembling too, and Bucky pulls them back so they’re lying on the bed.

He keeps on saying “I am here” and “I’m not gonna leave”, and it just slightly reassures Steve. Bucky also makes sure that Steve is being the little spoon and that he gets lots and lots of more kisses pressed onto his shoulders, neck, and cheek.

Lying there in silence for at least fifteen minutes, he feels like he owes Bucky an explanation. An explanation as to why he just loaded his own weight on Bucky’s shoulders even though he swore to himself to never do that.

“I had a nightmare,” he whispers into the darkness.

“I guessed that, yeah,” Bucky answers. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Steve whispers back.

“That’s okay.” Another kiss to Steve’s shoulder blade.

Numbness that had settled in during crying gets pushed away, just a little, by a few tiny butterflies in Steve’s stomach. “Do you want to talk about your nightmares?” he asks.

He can feel Bucky shrug. “I dunno.” His brunette inhales deeply, and then asks, “do you remember how many?”

Steve doesn’t have to ask what he means by that.

“I stopped counting, after a while,” he answers, and it hurts saying that.

“I never did,” Bucky says.

It’s obvious, that Bucky wants him to ask. “How many?”

“Twenty-four,” Bucky says.

It doesn't change anything. Bucky was a soldier. A sniper. He didn’t expect him to come out of a war as a Sergeant with zero kills.

Steve still loves him, and nothing can happen that will change that.

___

The worst part about being in love and an artist, probably has to be all the paintings that beg to be started, finished, or worked on, and having not enough time.

Because Steve is in love, and artist, he wants to simultaneously spend all of his time with the person he is so helplessly in love with, and also painting that person. He has ideas over ideas for new projects, and soon he starts to run out of canvases. Then out of a special cobalt blue, a dark brown and light ochre, and he decides to take Bucky with him to the next arts and crafts store, and use Bucky’s eyes as comparison for a new tube of blue.

“I don’t understand why we're here,” Bucky grumbles, he is clearly bored by running around the store with no real goal other than getting new colors and canvases. “You have every single art related item I can imagine in your house.”

“I need something very specific,” Steve says simply, and samples another blue on a piece of paper and holds it next to Bucky’s eyes. “Nope, not this one either.”

“What are you even doing,” Bucky asks drily.

“Well,” Steve begins, “I’ve run out of the blue I use for your eyes. So I need a new one, and unfortunately, they don’t sell that specific color anymore. Thus I need to match all the blues that seem similar to your eyes, and actually find the one that I can work with.”

Bucky sighs, and a blush creeps up his cheeks. Putting his hands on his hips, Steve gives him an accusatory face. “Stop blushing, it makes your eyes stand out. I need your _exact_ eye color.”

He uncomfortably shifts from one leg to the other, his arms crossing in front of his chest. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Steve grins, and samples the blue, to then hold it up to Bucky’s eyes. “This one is perfect.”

Suddenly interested, Bucky snatches the sampling tube out of Steve’s hand and squints at the packaging. “Cobalt turquoise? My eyes are definitely not _turquoise._ ”

Steve takes a new tube off the shelf and offers his hand to Bucky. “No, they are a very pretty shade of teal blue, but this is probably the closest that I can get. They change, based on weather and what you're wearing anyway.”

He puts the sampling tube back where it belongs, and then reaches for Steve’s outstretched hand. “Are we done now?”

“I just need one more specific canvas, yeah?” Steve promises.

Bucky makes a sound of frustration and tips his head backwards, the strands hanging out of his bun bouncing with the movement. “We’ve been here for an _hour._ ”

“And we’ll be here for one more, if you don’t stop complaining.” He starts walking over into the general direction of the canvases. “Don’t you think I am being pretty damn cute painting you all the time?”

“Pretty damn _pathetic,_ you mean,” Bucky says. “How many times can you draw the same face before it gets boring, huh? Tell me that.”

“Since it’s your face,” Steve says slowly, “let’s go with never.”

“You’re so sappy,” Bucky groans, “it’s a _burden._ ”

“My muse,” Steve grins.

“ _Ugh._ ”

~~~

It’s the last week of June, and Bucky has no idea what to give Steve for his birthday. He’s been racking his brain for at least a week now, and he just doesn’t know what Steve would want. He asked Sam, he asked Natasha, he even went as far as asking Sharon when they met her a few days back. Sam had suggested a cake (“I can’t bake for shit, Wilson.” - “You could try for your boyfriend.” “He’s not my-”), Nat had looked at him with a long, suffering stare, and then said “You can’t go wrong with a gift card.” Sharon had proposed something art related, but that is just plain stupid. Steve already has _everything_ art related. Even if it’s scattered around the house, in the weirdest places. Just recently, Bucky found a brush in the cutlery cupboard. A pencil next to the toothbrushes, a tube of acrylic paint in one of his shoes. A dirty palette in the downstairs bathroom sink, crepe tape in the wardrobe.

He finally just asks Steve himself.

“Oh, so you decided?” Steve asks, his smile perking up, reaching up to brighten his eyes.

“Yeah. Now tell me what you want for your birthday.” Bucky’s playing it down, because this is making him insecure, reminding him how little he knows about Steve, how he himself is an open book, and Steve just sometimes lets him read in on a few pages.

“I don’t need anything,” Steve smiles, dropping his head into his hands, looking at Bucky like he is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“I asked what you want, not what you need.” Bucky’s skipping through pages of his textbook, averting his eyes from Steve, because if he doesn’t, he might kiss him again, and Steve would use that as a perfect distraction from Bucky’s question.

“If you’re there, then that’s the best gift you could give me,” he says simply.

Bucky groans, because Steve is horribly sappy and it’s still no answer. “You’re a fucking asshole. Just tell me something materialistic you want. I can’t just show up in gift wrap.”

“You could,” Steve says, and when Bucky looks up for a brief moment, he’s grinning. “And I could unwrap you.”

“I’m gonna kick you.”

“You could _kiss_ me, though, that’d be nicer.”

“No chance.”

Steve leans over the sofa and presses his lips to Bucky’s neck. His heart makes an excited jump. “Not even a tiny one?” Steve asks, his tongue leaving a stripe on his skin.

“ _Pulă,_ ” he hisses, finding what he’s been looking for in his book. “That means dick. Or asshole. Whichever you like more.”

“Is this you subtly asking me for my preference?”

Bucky’s heart stumbles over one beat. “No. It is me calling you an asshole.”

“Say it in Russian,” Steve breathes against the wet skin, his hands grabbing Bucky’s hips.

“There are at least seven different ways to say that that I can think of right now.”

“Say them all.”

Bucky pulls Steve away from his neck by the back of his shirt. “No. You’re ridiculous.”

“Do it,” Steve rasps, his eyes challenging Bucky.

“What, so you can maul me again? Make my neck look like someone twisted it?”

They stare at each other, Steve’s eyes narrowing, before his expression crumbles and he laughs. Bucky joins in, and he realizes only later, when he sees his therapist, that Steve still didn’t answer his question.

~~~

“I mean, he must want something, right? I can’t just give him nothing.” He looks at Mrs. Milton for help, but she just shrugs, her eyebrows raised. “Everybody wants something for their birthday, right?”

“You don’t,” she says and smiles. “You hate it, if I remember correctly.”

He sighs heavily, his head falling into the back of his neck. “Okay. So what. I just turn up with no gift at all? Pretend as if my presence alone is enough?”

“Maybe for him, it is,” she suggests. “Have you thought about that? That maybe he’s telling the truth and he wouldn’t want anything else but you?”

They spoke about it, of course Bucky told her, about the kiss and about the talk they had, and about how Steve said he can wait and doesn’t want Bucky to do anything he’s uncomfortable with and that they don’t need to be together. (And of course she knows that Bucky’s sex life is non-existent and she knows why.)

“But-” Bucky taps his fingers on his knee, “why? I mean… I’m just… I dunno. Not enough.”

She waits for a moment before she answers. “James, tell me something that you like about yourself.”

_Oh god._

Hard question.

“Like… generally, or… just physically?”

“Whichever,” Mrs. Milton smiles.

He can’t come up with anything. Is that sad? A little, maybe. “Uh… I don’t know.”

“Then let me pose the question differently. What is it you would like to change about yourself, so that you can feel more comfortable in your body, maybe even then find to like it?”

Sometimes, Bucky would like to be someone entirely else, but that’s very much impossible.

“My hair?” he offers, not really sure if he dislikes his hair. It’s just sort of… there.

“Then I’d like to give you a challenge. Get a haircut. Sometime this or next week. Before our next appointment. See if you can reclaim a part of yourself.”

~~~

When Bucky sits in the chair of the hairdresser’s, he’s nervous for some weird reason. Clint is next to him, slurping from a pink Starbucks drink with ice, condensation on the plastic, and he’s spinning in his chair.

“You’re gonna puke,” Bucky tells him.

“Nope,” Clint says. He takes another big slurp from his drink. “You wanna try?”

“The spinning or the tea?”

Clint shrugs, spinning slower in his chair so he can look at Bucky. “How much do you want to cut off?”

With a sigh, Bucky looks into the mirror. It surprised him, when he sat down, that his face was a little bronzed, that there were a hint of freckles on his nose and cheekbones, that the dark circles under his eyes had gotten less pronounced, and his skin looked refreshed, not livid, like it used to just a few months back. And his hair had grown rather long again. When Nat had cut it in February, to his chin, he lost a good chunk of length, which he’s almost gained back now; his hair touches right below his shoulders.

Now he runs his hand through it, changes the middle parting to a side parting. Pushes it behind his ears, and then back to normal again. “I don’t know. I mean… I never wanted my hair long, I think.”

“Yeah,” Clint nods, “you did put a lot of effort into styling it.”

“Should I try that again?” Bucky pulls it back tight with one hand, tries to imagine what he would look like with short hair. “Like... going short?” He looks at Clint. “Your length, maybe?”

Clint scoffs. “If you want Natasha to constantly ask if you’re balding, sure.”

“ _Are_ you balding?” Bucky asks with a grin.

Clint kicks his chair and sends Bucky doing a 180. “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I must be balding.”

“It usually does.” He turns his chair so it’s facing Clint again. “At least you admit that you’re old. Steve is in denial.”

“He’s turning thirty-six,” Clint scoffs. “That’s definitely not old. Look at me. I’m dead soon.”

“True,” Bucky laughs. “Poor Nat.”

“Oh, she’ll be happy once I’m gone,” Clint says, “she can’t wait for me to die. As often as she’s threatening to kill me.”

“What about your wedding?” Bucky asks, “You guys gonna get married before she kills you?”

“She’d make a beautiful widow,” Clint sighs, but then shakes his head. “Nah. I dunno. Don’t think so.”

“Why get engaged in the first place, if you don’t want to marry?” replies Bucky curiously. “I mean- I dunno. That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.”

Clint shrugs, and it seems like he doesn’t know the answer to that question himself. He offers Bucky his drink, and Bucky takes a sip from it. It’s too sweet. He pulls a face and gives it back. Steve would _love_ it.

“What about the thing with the kids?”

Now his friend sighs, gets his chair spinning slowly again. “Honestly, I like kids. I think they’re great. I like working with them. I feel like Nat does too, she always comes back from the toddler beginners lessons in a good mood, but… well. We thought about adopting, but then again kids also make huge messes, and they are stressful and need loads of responsibility.”

“Adopting?” Bucky replies with a frown. _That’s new._

“Oh, uh- yeah. Nat’s been kinda down about it.”

“About what?” he asks.

“The infertility,” Clint says. “Hasn’t she told you? It came out a while ago.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say, because, _no,_ Natasha hasn’t told him about this, and he feels like that might be a big deal.

Clint is still spinning in his chair, but he smiles when Bucky looks at him. “Anyway, we talked, and we think it’s better to just… Leave the situation as it is right now. Kindergarten is great. Nat’s lessons are great. We’re fine that way.”

Bucky thinks about kids, for a moment. He thinks about Steve’s biggest dream, and he thinks about his own conflicting wishes for the future. Not that he expects his relationship with Steve to last that long. He _wants_ it to, he just knows that it’s terribly unlikely. He’s never been much of a keeper. Used to drop people, before they noticed that, or got dropped when they did notice.

Finally, they get the hairdressers attention, after the previous client pays and leaves.

He decides to go short, after all. Not to match his old self more, just for the reason that he feels his current hairstyle was caused by lack of self-care. He does care about himself now, a little more at least. When he sends a picture to Winnie, she calls him and proceeds to squeal for half a minute. Apparently, he looks good. He also sends a photo to Sam and Nat (who also confirm that he looks great), but not to Steve.

He can’t really explain himself, why he doesn’t tell Steve. They’ll see each other in two days, on Steve’s birthday, so maybe Bucky doesn’t feel the need to tell him about that when he’ll see it soon face to face anyway. Maybe he just wants to surprise him.

When he’s home - Clint stays and they watch tv and talk about depression and share self-care tips - he can’t stop running his hand through his hair. Down his neck (it’s a significant amount shorter than at the sides where it feels like puppy fur), through the longest part on top of his head, messing up the styling. Clint teases him about it, and out of self-consciousness, Bucky tries pushing hair behind his ears. Fingers run through thin air, and he realizes that he can’t hide behind the mop on his head anymore. Maybe that’s good.

~~~

And then the day arrives. His alarm wakes him, and Bucky just wants to keep on sleeping for at least a week. His next-door neighbor is playing loud rock music. Lucy at his hip blinks twice, before she crawls on top of him, and starts licking his face. His cue to get up. But he doesn’t. He stays in bed.

He hates everything so much right now.

Someone from a floor up is stomping through the staircase, humming the national anthem.

He takes a deep breath in, holds it there for a few seconds, and then exhales, as slowly and controlled as he can. Repeats the process until his chest stops shaking out of anger.

Then he takes his phone from its usual place on the mattress and texts Steve.

 **_happy birthday, stevie. hope u didnt suddenly get gray hair overnight._ ** And then he hesitantly adds, **_i’m happy to see u later._ **

He gets a photo back, shirtless Steve with Sunshine in bed, a happy smile on his lips, half-lidded eyes because the sun is shining in them, disheveled bed hair and soft stubble. He’s utterly beautiful. A text follows just seconds after. **_Thanks, baby. Can’t wait for you to be here. This bed’s too empty._ ** The kissing emoji right behind it.

Bucky’s stomach does a drop, then squeezes itself together, and then he’s just smiling, sweetness filling his chest. How did he get so lucky? How does he deserve Steve?

He decides that he doesn’t know the answer. Probably never will.

Finally, he gets up (it takes way too long, about half an hour, and Bucky feels like he’s regressing - he has been able to be up and about in under ten minutes recently), feeds Lucy and takes a shower, and while he washes his hair, he’s amazed by how he can shampoo his whole scalp now, not just the top of it.

He can’t help peeking in the fogged up mirror when he’s done. Stares at himself for a few seconds. It’s almost like old Bucky is staring right back. He forces a smile on his lips. Surprises himself with how normal it looks.

That it looks good.

He turns from the mirror, Lucy is standing in the doorway, tail wagging, her leash dropped to the floor.

“Yeah, just a minute, okay? We’ll leave soon.”

For a few seconds he’s indecisive, but then his eyes slip back to the mirror.

He knows that this face carried confidence once. Pushes up his chin a little, and he seems to catch it. Tries a one-sided smirk. Nearly gasps at how it’s _almost_ old Bucky right there, flirting, smiling, being handsome.

Furrows his brows, relaxes them again. Turns his head to the right. Then to the left. Touches his cheek, runs his fingers over his nose, his lips.

Is this what Steve sees?

He dares to let his eyes drop to his neck, to his shoulders. He’s picked a bit of muscle from training with Nat. Eyes wander down, to his chest. Over that fatal scar. It doesn’t look too bad. It’s smaller than he remembers. Less screaming red. Skin colored. It’s not pretty, by far not. But it’s also not… horrible. Not like he remembers.

He reaches out, with a deep breath, and touches it, just with his fingertips. It doesn’t hurt, like it used to. The tissue is soft, almost. Also different than to what he remembers. He suddenly wants to know what the back looks like. He knows that the exit hole is bigger than the entry hole, but if this is… almost okay, then the back can’t be much worse, can it?

Up to his face again. He bares his teeth, looks at the inside of his mouth, the underside of his tongue. Flares the wings of his nose, and has to laugh because it looks ridiculous.

He lifts his head, looks at a fading bruise on his throat where Steve put a love bite. Touches it, and presses down on it. It doesn’t hurt anymore, and somehow Bucky wishes it did. Not because of the pain, but because it would mean that it’s recent. A moment of passion. Now it’s just a fading claim. He wonders what his neck would look like if it was a new bruise; dark red, bits of purple. Would it look good? Would it feel good, knowing that other people can see where Steve left his mark on Bucky?

His eyes fall on the shining dog tags, and he wonders something else.

What would it be like to take them off?

Would he look even more like his old self? The man that hasn’t been to war?

His breath quickens as he opens the clasp. Pulls his hands away, and the chain falls to the ground with a clatter. Lucy sniffs it. Then she sits next to him, tilts her head upwards so he pets her with one hand, the other feels the empty space around his neck, on his sternum.

Does it feel better?

He can’t really tell.

But it looks different. His hand drops down to the scar, and he hides it behind a flat palm.

That’s familiar, now, somehow. He tries smiling again.

Shock hits him. He looks like a totally different person.

He looks like old Bucky.

And even more, he looks good.

A loud honk from the street outside pulls him out of the almost trance-like state, and he snatches a towel he had left on the floor. He should really get dressed, go for a walk with Lucy and get something to eat. Otherwise, he won’t be on time.

Without noticing, he leaves the dogs tags on the floor, and a sweep of Lucy’s tail pushes them under the cabinet under the sink.

~~~

Overly festive people are on the streets and it makes Bucky angry. The whole walk to Steve he feels like he’s about to completely freak out. Punch someone and yell profanities that would make his mother wash his mouth with soap. He gets angrier and angrier the longer he walks, twice someone reaches down to pet his dog, ignoring all of the signs on it saying explicitly _not_ to do that, and the angrier he gets, the more scared he gets too. Because once Bucky reaches a certain level of anger, it’s pretty hard to calm down from it without relieving that tension violently. In the middle of their walk over to Steve’s, Lucy gently pulls Bucky over to a bench, and then lies down on his lap, encouraging him to pet her. Thanks to her intervention, he doesn’t reach that level.

Upon entering Steve’s street he tries to compose himself a little more, after all, it is Steve’s _birthday._  He doesn’t want to ruin the event with his aggression. When he can spot Steve’s home in the distance, he can’t help but smile a little. House and fence got decorated with balloons and lanterns and all that cheesy stuff, he can hear music from the backyard. Lucy gets excited about the smell of barbecue and with each step closer to the house Bucky feels like he should swallow his own pride and put on a happy face.

The front door is wide open, inside he can see people in the hallway with snacks, laughing and talking, and his happy face crumbles a little. He hadn’t really thought about how many people there would be.

A flood of horror washes over him, and he is 100% sure that he can’t do this. He’s going to either freak out, or dissociate, and neither of those two options are exactly pleasing. He’s going to ruin Steve’s birthday.

He should leave now, before he can do more damage.

But then Steve steps in the hallway, tall and broad shoulders and everything, and Bucky’s worries are washed away.

 _Fuck,_ he looks amazing.

Like the epitome of pure sunlight.

He wears light washed jeans cut off above the knee, a dark gray shirt clings to his chest and shows off every single detail of his torso, a baseball cap on backwards makes a bunch of hairs peek through the hole in the front and his smile has never been brighter.

Steve spots him as he turns, for a fraction of a second there is surprise on his face, but then he lifts a hand and waves, gives the guy snacking on a hot dog next to him a pat on the back and then he’s already out the door and hopping down the stairs.

“Hi!” he calls out, and G _od, he’s so pretty._ His face shines with happiness and positivity, he has a faded lipstick mark on his left cheek, a few stains of blue paint on his left arm, vanishing under the sleeve of his shirt. Bucky feels like partially undressing him to see where that trail of paint ends.

His blonde giant is in front of him in just a few steps, puts his arms around him and hugs him so hard that Bucky almost gets squished to death. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, “Almost thought you wouldn’t come.”

Steve pretends as if Bucky showed up terribly late, but it’s actually just fifteen minutes.

“Well, gotta give you this present, right?” Bucky answers, his voice sounding strangled, “you’re kinda crushing me a little.”

Steve hastily lets go of him, and apologizes, twice, and then once again by pressing a quick peck to his cheek. And then he pulls back, runs a hand through Bucky’s short hair, only to take a hold of his head and tilt it from left to right, just like Bucky did this morning.

“What happened to your hair?” he asks, a smile on his lips, and he uses his other hand to run his fingers over the short hair on the sides. Bucky‘s whole head tingles from the touch.

“I got it cut,” he answers, “duh.”

“It looks good,” Steve smiles, “ _really_ good.” Tilts Bucky’s head again, now with both hands, and then pushes them through the longer part. “Not that you didn’t with long hair. But this does too.” Two fingers run upward in Bucky’s neck, against the grain. “Yeah. _Really_ good.”

“Kinda thought so too,” Bucky admits softly. “I- I dunno. My therapist challenged me to change something about myself. So I changed the hair. Thought I could finally choose that for myself.” Since depression chose for him for such a long time.

“Now everyone can see the beautiful hickeys I put on your beautiful neck,” Steve charms, brushes the pad of his thumb against the only faded one just below Bucky’s jawline. He pulls away and looks over Bucky’s face one more time. “Wow. Really. You look amazing. So different.” Then he leans forward, lips brushing against Bucky’s, and he kisses him. In front of everyone who wants to see, and Bucky’s heart stops for a moment.

Another claim.

“I kinda wanna undress you,” Steve breathes against his lips.

Bucky can’t help but chuckle. “Yeah. In a few months maybe.”

“Can’t wait for it,” Steve says before he kisses him again, tongue asking for Bucky to invite him in, but before he can respond by opening his mouth, Steve pulls back, brows furrowed. “I mean. I can. I can wait for that. Of course I can.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, a laugh bubbling up his chest. “I got what you were trying to say.”

“I’m a good waiter,” Steve goes on, “I mean, at waiting. Not serving drinks. I’m good at waiting.”

“Bet you are.”

“Phenomenal,” Steve mumbles, leans back in for another kiss, his hands sneaking down Bucky’s sides, only to rest on his hips. Thumbs brush over Bucky’s skin right at the hem of his shirt.

“Patience in person,” Bucky laughs against Steve’s lips and pulls away. “C’mon. You have a party going on here. Don’t wanna bunker the host.”

“You can bunker me all day,” Steve grins, one eyebrow pulled up suggestively.

“Ugh, now it sounds dirty. You’re the worst.”

Steve laughs, pulls his cap from his head to reveal golden hair, and puts it on Bucky’s head. “Here you go.”

“What’s that for?” Bucky asks, frowning and looking up.

“Now you’re wearing something of mine. You weren’t before.”

Yet another claim.

Steve slips his hand into Bucky’s and pulls him into the direction of the house. “You know what, you put your things up in the bedroom, and I’ll be in the kitchen getting you and Lucy something to eat, alright?”

“Fine with me,” Bucky agrees, greets the group of five in the hallway, lets Lucy off her leash and then gets pushed up the stairs by Steve to almost trip over his own feet. He calls him an asshole in Russian, just to fuck with him, and gets into the bedroom before Steve can attack him with his lips again. Lets his backpack drop next to the bed and then falls onto the neatly made bed, just breathing in and out for a moment. It’s okay. No spacing out. Yet.

He pulls himself together, straightens the wrinkles out of his shirt as best as he can, takes Steve’s cap that fell off his head and rearranges it, leaves the bedroom and goes back down the stairs to the kitchen. He can do this. If he survived the subway ride of hell, survived the restaurant (without any problems), survived the bar, he will survive this birthday party with ease.

Steve is talking to some guy in the kitchen about the influence of social media on mainstream art while he piles food on a plate in front of him. Everything is decorated with either variations of the American Flag, or birthday balloons and paper streamers in wild colors, the kitchen counters are filled with a buffet of any barbeque food imaginable, and Bucky’s instantly overwhelmed. It’s too much of everything. Too many people, too many colors, too much food, too many noises, too many different smells.

But he can do this, he tells himself, _you’ve survived things way worse than this._

Steve feeds Lucy a strip of bacon while he laughs at something the guy says that Bucky can’t concentrate on, and then puts an arm around Bucky’s shoulders.

“Yeah, right?” Steve says and gives Bucky a look that is supposed to say something, but since Bucky didn’t listen to their conversation, he doesn’t understand either the out of context sentence or expression so he just shrugs.

Both guys laugh and Steve pulls him into his side. “We’re still working on the confidence thing,” he explains to the other man, and Bucky sighs, not knowing if they’re talking about him.

“Hey, let’s go outside, so you can have some room to breathe?” Steve suggests after ending the conversation.

“I’m fine,” Bucky replies instinctively, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Okay, then let’s go outside so _I_ can have some room to breathe.” He offers Bucky the plate he was filling up, and then takes his free hand to lead him outside. In the garden there are groups of people talking, laughing, eating. It’s still bearable, even though Bucky can feel anxiety climbing up his back. Sunshine and two other dogs (a Staffordshire mix and a French Bulldog) are lying under the apple tree, chewing on bones, and Lucy joins them, sniffing the new dogs, only to then steal Sunshine’s bone and take off with it. Steve greets several people on the way, stops to exchange a few words with them.

“How do you have so many friends?” Bucky asks after a few minutes, more breathless than he had thought he was.

“I have no idea,” Steve smiles, “A lot of these people I know only on bowing terms, friends of friends, acquaintances, some neighbors.” He nods to a small group at the back of the garden, and Bucky recognizes Sharon and Bruce. “But let me introduce you to the rest of my really close friends. They are dying to meet you.”

Bucky’s not really dying to meet them, he has to be honest - last time went horribly (it wasn’t Steve’s friends fault though, more the overall situation and overwhelmingness of it), but they’re his friends, and they’re part of his life, so he’ll pull through it. Besides, maybe it will tell him a little more about his favorite blonde. Maybe he’ll let him read a whole chapter of his book for once.

They go over, the fingers around Bucky’s hand slip between Bucky’s own, a thumb runs over the back of his hand, and the gesture makes Bucky’s skin tingle. He’s showing him off. 

And then suddenly there she is. He knows exactly that it’s her when she makes a straight beeline for them.

She is pretty - damn, she might be one of the prettiest women that Bucky has ever looked at. She wears a red form-fitting dress, matching lipstick and a pair of sunglass pushed up into her perfect brown curls.

And she smiles, which probably makes it worse.

Smiling brightly, and friendly, she makes her way up to them, greeting Steve with a kiss on his cheek, and the print that it leaves matches the one he already has. Something starts slowly boiling in his stomach, like rice on low heat.

“There’s our birthday boy,” she charms, before giving him a reproachful look. “I flew here nine hours just for you, and I’ve barely seen you today. Is this how you treat your best girl?”

_Best girl._

Oh yeah, there he goes. Bucky is getting jealous.

“Sorry, Peg, I had to pick up this beauty” he smiles and drops Bucky’s right hand, to which Peggy reacts with promptly extending her own.

“Bucky,” she says, smiles wide, shows off her perfect teeth, “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The handshake is firm.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he gets out.

“You better take good care of my Steve, or I’m coming to kick your ass.”

Bucky hates the way her accent sounds so ridiculously pretty and that it makes Steve grin. “Don’t scare him away, Peggy,” he answers in place of Bucky, “I can take good care of myself.”

Peggy scoffs, “And I imagined all those times you called me, pining over a specific long haired guy and why your life is a mess and that there is no way that Bucky likes you back?”

 _Wait, what?_ Bucky’s gaze flies to Steve’s eyes, and Steve turns just slightly reddish on the cheeks. Might be from the sun, though, Bucky isn’t sure. “That’s _so_ not true,” Steve denies instantly.

“Believe me,” Peggy says, directed at Bucky, “I never get to hear anything else from this man. So much self-doubt. Big, stupid softie.” She pokes a finger into his biceps, and then his pecs. “To think you could resist any of this,” and then pats her hand on Steve’s chest, and goes on, “or this. Heart of gold.” She throws Bucky a smile. “You didn’t even stand a chance.”

Now she pulls on Steve’s shirt sleeve, exposes the streak of blue color on his arm, and it runs up to his shoulder, over it, and then vanishes under the shirt again. “He was painting this whole morning, we had to practically pull him away from the canvas.” Now she stares at Bucky for a few seconds, before she looks up at Steve again, eyes full of affection. “Really, Steve, kudos to you. You actually depict him pretty perfectly. You’re a great artist.”

Steve gets that smile that Bucky loves, that one that is practically liquid Sunshine, but it’s directed at Peggy, and he says, “Peg, thanks.”

And this is where Bucky stops listening because the rice that was on low heat has been turned up all the way.

After what feels like an eternity, Steve finally takes Bucky’s hand again, and he pulls him through a few other people, and they arrive at the rest of the group. Everyone cheers, Steve gets handed a drink that apparently they’ve been holding on to for him, and they all talk over each other, but Bucky is okay with it. It’s a convenient distraction.

Sharon smiles at him, asks how he’s doing, and that his hair looks good. Bruce nods at Bucky and hands him over a glass bottle of coke (Bucky’s not actually a big fan of coke, it’s too sweet, but it’s a nice gesture because this is what Bucky had when they met the first time), and Scott actually puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and introduces him to the conversation. Bucky would’ve thought that he’d done a pretty good job of scaring Steve’s friends away when he freaked out in the bar, but apparently, that’s not really the case.

A girl with long, light brown hair and lots of rings on her fingers that introduces herself as Wanda, asks if he’s “Bucky, Steve’s boyfriend?”, and for a second, he doesn’t know what to answer.

Because - haven’t they always been a _we,_ a symbiosis of a kind, that made them better when they were together?

 _Of course,_ of course they have always been a _we._ Being with Steve has always been a matter of sharing, thoughts or time or clothes or food or dog walks or sleep or individual interests that became common interest in this intricate ecosystem of their relationship.

And of course his therapist was right in addressing what she thought was codependency, but it isn’t that way. It isn’t that Steve individually makes Bucky happy, that Bucky _needs_ Steve to be happy and that he can’t be on his own, that his whole world revolves around him. That Steve is the star in Bucky’s solar system, and he is a planet that’s whole life depends on how close he is to the sun, no, this isn’t how their ecosystem works. Steve doesn’t _make_ happiness, he just highlights it. He says “look at this” and “look at that” and “you’ve come so far” and “see how strong you are, Bucky” and he makes Bucky realize his own accomplishments.

Looking back at the three first weeks of their friendship, Bucky feels like he should revise what he thought there. How scared he was of losing the stability Steve gave him - but it was never that _Steve_ gave him stability, he did all of that by himself. Steve was there to catch him, he was there to listen and suggest, sure, but in the end, it was Bucky who was in control of it all.

Bucky is the one who says “yes” to all those times they try out something new, Steve never pressures him to go over his limits, and never has he made Bucky feel like he depends on him for his happiness.

So they aren’t sun and earth in orbit, one in a place of power and one in subjection to the other - dependant on the other’s existence.

And they aren’t even Sun and Moon, one supplying light for the other, because without help, it just simply can’t shine on its own.

No, they’re a dual star system. Two separate stars. They exist _with_ each other, not _because_ of each other.

So they’ve always been a _we._

And then Bucky thinks, isn’t that what steady relationships are about?

Isn’t this like a steady relationship anyway?

Where’s the line? When did they stop being friends and exceeded friendship? The moment they kissed? Or maybe before that, when they slept together in Bucky’s bed? Or maybe on the rooftop? Or even earlier, when Steve stretched out his hand and Bucky took it and entered the subway?

Maybe the exact point in time isn’t important.

Maybe this is not about _one_ moment, but several, equally important moments. Maybe this is more about the feeling in Bucky’s chest when he looks at Steve at this very moment and says “yes,” and Steve’s whole face just lights up.

So they’re boyfriends now.

It doesn’t feel like anything changed. Not for Bucky at least.

But Steve smiles as if somebody just told him that one of his paintings sold for a million dollars. He reaches out, putting his hand in Bucky’s neck, pulling him close, kissing him right above his ear, and he whispers “god, Bucky,” and Bucky knows exactly which words he wants those two to follow.

~~~

Sam arrives somewhere after 4 pm, with a present and Maria tailing after him. Bucky wonders why he brought her, until Steve greets her like they know each other.

Turns out they do. Turns out they are actually friends and worked together for a short while.

Bucky feels stupid. Why doesn’t he know this?

And against better knowledge, he gets jealous again when Sam and Steve banter and joke around, talking about something the last time they saw each other and Bucky realizes that they meet up without him regularly. Bucky should actually be glad, that two of the most important people in his life get along so well. It just that a part of him is scared that they’ll decide Bucky is too boring or too annoying for them, and they’d be better off without him. It’s stupid, he knows that. But when Steve leaves to greet someone else, Bucky can’t help but bite at Sam why he has a present for Steve, and pretended he had no idea what Bucky could give him when he asked.

“Dude,” Sam laughs, “he sent us a link to an Amazon wish list of inexpensive stuff he still needs. It’s just an immersion blender, nothing fancy.”

“Why didn’t I get a link to that list?” Bucky sulks, and he turns to look for Steve but can’t find him anywhere in the room.

“Maybe he just didn’t want you to get him anything,” Sam grins, “sound familiar?”

“Shut up,” he mutters and reaches out to shove his shoulder, but Sam avoids it with a laugh, to then put an arm around _his_ shoulder.

“How ya doin’, huh? You look good.”

“Thanks. I think... I’m feeling good too. Like, really good.”

“Despite today?” Of course he had shared his worries with Sam about this day.

“It’s alright,” he sighs. “Everytime early fireworks go off I flinch, but apart from that, I guess I’m okay.”

“They should fucking go after those assholes,” Sam mumbles. “I saw several signs on the way here. You’d think people would be more considerate.”

Bucky doesn’t answer that, because people usually aren’t considerate, and if they are, it’s a fucking miracle.

“You going home later?” Sam asks. “We can drop you off at your place.”

“You’re not staying for fireworks?” Bucky replies, brows furrowed.

“Bucky,” Sam laughs, “no. No, we’re going home and we’ll blast loud music and conversate through text messages while having comfort food and watching Mamma Mia on silent.”

Oh, yeah. He forgot about that - Sam just seems like he’s invincible regarding his own military history. “That sounds like a great evening,” Bucky smiles. _Mamma Mia on silent._

“We have a playlist,” Sam grins, “with alternative songs we would put instead of the original songs. It’s really good.” He thinks about it for a moment. “You wanna join?”

“No, Sam - don’t be ridiculous. I don’t wanna intrude.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Man, you’re not intruding. Get that through your thick skull. You’re family.”

Before Bucky can get all teary eyed and emotional, someone waltzes into the room, and Bucky’s jaw almost drops.

“Where’s the birthday boy? The guest of honor is here!”

It’s Anthony Stark.

Owner of _Stark Industries,_ one of North America’s most successful weapons manufacturers before Stark got taken prisoner during an arms demonstration in Afghanistan and then had a change of heart when he came back and started experimenting with renewable energies and became equally successful with that.

Anthony Stark, whose father Howard Stark Bucky and his father have admired since Bucky was a kid, and then gushed over his son with Winnie when he was a teenager.

Steve appears out of the kitchen, and instead of being surprised, he smiles, hugs Stark briefly, and then laughs and blushes when Stark hands him a huge present that his butler (/personal assistant/bodyguard? What the hell?) was carrying.

“No-no, you open it now,” Stark exclaims to something Steve is saying and Bucky realizes they are _friends._

So Steve laughs, kneels down on the ground and opens the present (it’s got red-white-blue wrapping paper with a huge blue bow on top), while a considerable amount of guests watches. He pulls out a black leather biking jacket, laughs, and then turns it so everyone can see. It’s got the weird frisbee design embroidered on it, and many people laugh as if they are in on this joke.

Somehow, Bucky remembers back to that very first Thursday in _Espresso Yourself_ (which is _Sharon’s_ café, as he learned just recently) and he thinks hard. Makes a connection between Steve’s keychain, and this jacket.

So… _that’s_ Tony?

Steve’s just so very casually friends with Anthony Stark that he shows up to his birthday party and brings gifts based on a stupid inside joke. Wow.

“What’s that, matching pants?” Steve laughs as he puts on the jacket, looking into the box while he pushes his arms into the sleeves. God, he looks handsome.

“Almost,” Stark- Tony grins, “c’mon. Hurry up. I have to be somewhere.”

“No, you don’t,” Steve grins and pulls out a second item out of the box. For a second he’s confused, because it’s another jacket, then his eyes flicker to Tony, and then for some reason over to Bucky.

“It’s a matching leather jacket for your boyfriend!” Tony exclaims proudly. “Believe it or not, I did the embroidery _myself._ ”

Steve gets up, and his eyes fall on Bucky.

Oh, right. _Bucky_ is Steve’s boyfriend.

“You wanna try it on?” he asks, and Bucky doesn’t get how someone who never met him can give him a gift - and then one from _Anthony Stark._

Bucky’s really not that special.

But he walks over and lets Steve help him into the jacket. It sticks onto his bare arms, smells like new leather, heavy on his shoulders, and he can tell that this could keep him warm in the winter with just a long sleeved shirt under it. The collar can be zipped up completely so that his neck won’t be exposed under a helmet. It’s a high-quality jacket. It was probably outrageously expensive.

He turns his head and pulls his right shoulder forward, trying to look if there is something on this jacket too.

And there is.

Where Steve’s jacket has a white star, with a blue circle around it, then a white ring, with a red one following, Bucky’s star is red and lies on a silver metallic circle, black edged lines running through it, and after a few seconds he can make out that it’s supposed to be metal plates.

Before Bucky can ask where the colors come from, Stark- _Tony_ starts explaining. “So the red is kind of obvious. You might immediately think of the Russian roots, but, I also thought about this fiery, stormy, fierce attitude.” His hands make wave movements at Bucky. Bucky has _no_ idea what he is talking about. “And the silver, well, Steve, remember what you described this handsome lad’s eyes as?”

“Gray steel,” Steve mumbles, and his eyes flicker away from Bucky, as if that was something he wasn’t supposed to know.

Bucky can’t react because he is too busy being starstruck by Anthony Stark in front of him.

“Does it fit?” Tony asks the blonde, smiling from one ear to another. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, I- I love it, thanks, Tony.” He pulls him into a hug, and Tony throws Bucky a helpless glance and pats on Steve’s back.

“Great. Because I also made you matching helmets.”

“Oh my god, Tony,” Steve laughs, and lets go of him, takes a look at Bucky, carefully turns him a little, so he can look at the design again, then smiles so fondly, that Bucky thinks he might actually just combust. “Yeah. It looks good.” And then he makes a startled expression. “God, where are my manners. Sorry. Tony, that’s Bucky, Bucky, this is my very good friend Tony.”

They shake hands, and Tony just goes right on talking. “You know, this one has it bad. Totally lost. He doesn’t stop talking about you. It’s constantly ‘Bucky’- this, ‘Bucky’ that. I have to listen to endless descriptions of your eyes and infinite beauty for hours. And then he just wouldn’t stop _raving_ about the bike ride, about how good you look in leather, yadda yadda yadda, so the new theme for this year was born.”

Wait. Is this some thing that Steve does? Talk to all of his friends about him?

“I don’t even know you,” Bucky can’t help saying dumbfounded, because how does he deserve this kindness from a complete stranger (apart from the fact that Bucky is a huge fan and he’s nerding the hell out right now)?

“Any friend of Steve’s is a friend of mine too.”

Bucky gapes at him, because this is not what he deserves. Not at all.

But the way that Steve smiles, the way his eyes say _yes, you deserve all of this,_ it’s hard to not believe it. If only for a moment.

Then Tony says something about getting a drink, and vanishes between people and Bucky is left looking into Steve’s eyes. If Bucky didn’t know that Steve loves him, he wouldn’t believe himself thinking that Steve is admiring him right at this moment.

“So,” he says, “you met all of them now.”

“Huh?” Bucky frowns. “What?”

“My friends,” Steve says with a chuckle. “You met all my closest friends.” His head tilts a tiny bit to the left. “Do you like them?”

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky says, still frowning. “Pepper is scary, though.”

“Scary?” Steve laughs, “How?”

Bucky bites his lip thinking about how he can explain, and for a fraction of a second Steve’s pupils dilate. Oh. That’s interesting. He’ll try that again, sometime.

“Uh… Well, I dunno. She’s all pulled together. She can walk in five-inch stilettos on slippery bar floors. She could probably kill me in them. With them even, maybe.”

Steve lets out an ugly snort, his eyelids squeezing shut, and a hand runs over his eyebrows. “Wow.” When he looks at Bucky again, there is mock in his eyes.

“You _asked,_ ” Bucky grumbles.

“Yeah, I did. And you’re probably right.” He looks around the room but doesn’t find what or who he’s searching for, so their eyes lock again. “She and Tony have been together for quite some time, so I guess she has to have that sort of bite.”

“Let’s talk about that,” Bucky intervenes quickly. “How did you not think of telling me that you’re friends with _Anthony Stark?_ ” He pulls on the collar of his jacket, and in response, Steve’s hands glide over his shoulders, smoothing out wrinkles.

“I thought you’d only like me for my connections to a world famous engineer,” he jokes, and a lopsided smile appears on his lips. “So you like him, is what I get from that?”

“Dude,” Bucky says, “I love that guy. I’ve loved that guy since my dad gave me rocket model kits. Which was with… what, five? Winnie has a fucking poster of him in her bedroom.”

“That’s weird,” Steve grins, his hands on Bucky’s shoulders fall down to his sides.

“Only if you know him, I guess,” he shrugs. “But yeah, he’s very nice.”

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Steve objects, a laugh bubbling in his chest. “When he shows up to any of the times we all meet, he can’t stop talking about himself. He’s so annoying.”

“But close to your heart,” Bucky notes.

“Yeah. He’s a great friend.” His eyes flicker to the ground for a moment. “He helped me buy the house. I wouldn’t’ve been able to afford it without him. And he refuses that I pay him back. It’s truly horrible. So charitable.”

There it is. Another page of Steve’s book. Just a few more, and maybe he’ll be able to make out the plot of a whole chapter.

He realizes that he’s been staring at Steve, when he clears his throat and goes on, “So, uh. Peggy. What about her?”

Peggy.

Oh, Jesus.

“She’s nice,” he says, but his jaw clenches as he says that. More jealousy. More venom.

“You hate her,” Steve says, and his shoulders drop.

“ _No,_ no, of course not. No. I don’t. That’s ridiculous.” Bucky pulls a face and then shrugs. “I dunno. She’s kinda intimidating, a bit.”

“Mh, not untrue.”

Before Bucky can stop himself, he asks the question. “You were a couple, weren’t you?”

And Steve _blushes._ High, on his cheekbones, hard, down his neck, his eyes drop to Bucky’s chest. “Not… no. Not really.” He sighs. “It’s weird. No. I mean- I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you were together?”

“No, I don’t know how to explain.” Steve looks seriously uncomfortable now. “We met back in Europe. I think I had just turned twenty.”

Bucky’s face sterns, and his chest aches. “Was she-”

Apparently, Steve knows exactly what he’s thinking, because he interrupts him immediately with an “Oh- no, no-no-no. _No._ Never. We kissed, maybe twice. That was it. For a short while, I had feelings.”

“You still love her, though.” It’s not a question, because it’s obvious - the way they interacted.

“As a friend, yes. As my best friend. The way you love Natasha.”

“It’s not the same for her,” Bucky says.

That makes Steve frown hard. “What?”

“Don’t say you don’t know that,” Bucky scoffs. “C’mon, Steve. It’s clear as day that she’s in love with you.” Bucky is very, very jealous right now. It comes out as anger, and that’s unfair and stupid but nothing he can’t help doing. It’s taking him over, like a parasite.

“You’re upset,” Steve realizes. “I’m sorry. But, really, Buck, she knows that I don’t feel that way anymore. She knows about _you._ ”

“Sharon does too, you know?” Bucky says. “She’s got a crush on you too.”

“Yes, I know that, okay? There was never anything with her.” His eyes turn pleading. “Bucky. Let’s stop fighting, okay?”

“We’re fighting?” Bucky bites back at him, and he’s being irrational and he’s not making any sense, not even in his own mind, but this is making him so, so _damn_ jealous. Because Peggy is beautiful, she’s determined and confident, she’s strong and intimidating, and she’s very much everything that Bucky isn’t. “Really? Are we?”

“Why are you so angry?” Steve asks back, like he really can’t understand why Bucky feels this way. Has he _ever_ looked at Bucky? “Because she kissed my cheek back there? I told you, Buck, I don’t-”

“It’s not about a fucking kiss to the cheek,” Bucky interrupts him, and he’s at a point where he can’t stop his own rage anymore, “or about _any_ kissing, matter of fact I don’t care about that or if you slept with her-”

“I didn’t sleep with her,” Steve throws in, “Bucky-”

“But she’s… she’s a _beautiful_ woman.”

Steve’s face falls, and for a second he looks like he doesn’t understand, but then it shifts, rapidly, and it’s left with pure anger. There is calmness about it, like watching rough seas from the land.

Oh, no.

He didn’t mean to make it sound like that.

He didn’t mean to, but it came out that way regardless.

“That’s a pretty _fucking_ low blow, Bucky.”

Bucky can’t find his voice for a few seconds, as horror spreads in his chest, because what he said was wrong, and disrespectful, blatantly offensive. Steve hates it. He hates it, and he is _deeply_ disappointed with Bucky.

Somewhere inside of Bucky, his worrying, doubtful self that’s infused with pure low self-confidence, lifts a triumphant fist. _Yes,_ it says, _I told you so. He will drop you. He_ despises _you._

Bucky hurries to amend his mistake, because this is not what he was trying to say, this is not how he wants this to end. _Shit,_ this isn’t anything like he wanted this day to turn out. But it’s the 4th of July - what else could he have expected?

“I didn’t- Fuck, Steve, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I was trying to say- that’s-...” He trails off, his chest falling into itself.

“Please. _Enlighten_ me with what you were trying to say.” He’s stone cold, and Bucky starts to panic. Because he doesn’t want this to end just because he can’t articulate himself properly.

“I- fuck- I’m sorry, Steve, I meant- I didn’t mean because she’s a woman, I meant because- shit, that came out so fucking wrong, I meant because she’s _beautiful._ Because she’s stunning and strong, she‘s got confidence, and,” he’s shaking now, “she’s everything I’m not.”

Everything that was hostile about Steve, his eyes, his arms, his whole body language - just crumbles down. He reaches out, and his hand rests on Bucky’s neck, his thumb on the edge of Bucky’s jaw.

“God, Buck. Here I thought you were attacking my sexuality, when in reality you were just attacking yourself. Again.” He pulls them together, their foreheads almost touching, and despite the anxiety that’s still crawling through Bucky’s chest, his stomach drops in sweetness. “How many times do I have to tell you? You _are_ beautiful. And I want _you._ I _want_ you, Bucky, you and nobody else.”

He didn’t drop him. He didn’t give up on him. Not yet.

He carefully places a kiss on the corner of Bucky’s lips, but Bucky is still frozen with fear. “There is no need to be jealous, baby,” Steve whispers against his mouth, “I have only eyes for you. Since the very beginning. I haven’t been with anyone since we met. Not even kissed anyone.” Another kiss. ”I’m very much set on you.”

“But _why?_ ” Bucky finally gets out, not ready to accept all of that. “I’m just-... I’m just me.” _Not enough._

“Bucky. _Baby._ ” Steve pulls away, and his warm, sweaty hand finds Bucky’s own, cold, sweaty hand, and he gets pulled from the living room into the now empty hallway, where there is a body length mirror that Steve keeps a coat over because of Bucky. He pulls it down, and there they are. Both of them next to each other.

“Look at yourself.”

So Bucky does.

He’s still wearing the leather jacket. It hugs his shoulders, makes them looks all broad and prominent, it accentuates his waist, his neck. There’s still that fading bruise under his jaw. The black leather makes it redder than it actually is. His cheeks are still flushed with anger and jealousy, his mouth tight. He meets his own eyes, his eyebrows all pinched together, his forehead in wrinkles. He relaxes his face, lets his glance walk up to his hair. It’s not the way he blow-dried it this morning, it’s messy and sticks up in weird directions because Steve ran his fingers through it so many times. And then he looks down in the mirror, at their tangled up hands.

Steve’s long, slender fingers, curled around the back of his hand, between white knuckles. He stretches his own fingers, and the white vanishes.

Back up, to where their shoulders are almost touching.

And then Steve moves. Takes a step backward, and as he places himself behind Bucky, he pulls their still intertwined hands over the front of his body, until Steve’s arm pulls Bucky flush against his chest. His face appears on his left shoulder, placing kisses on Bucky’s neck, behind his ear, and Bucky watches. It’s hard, to associate the man looking back at him with himself. Because-

“Don’t we look good?” Steve asks, breath on his neck, “Don’t we look good together, Buck?”

They do.

He can’t deny it.

They look good together.

And it’s so unfamiliar, the way they just fit perfectly because Bucky has never seen them together.

This is the first time.

Steve nuzzles his nose into the space between neck and shoulders, only to kiss him there, lips quirked upward against his skin. “Try smiling, huh?”

So Bucky does.

“What a beautiful, gorgeous smile you have, Bucky. It's one of the most beautiful things about you. Just seeing your face light up and knowing that you’re happy makes my day.”

More kisses, now to the base of his neck, up to where the short hairs start. “Beautiful hair, short or long, doesn’t matter. It’s on your head, so it’s beautiful.”

Kisses walk to his left ear, and Bucky can’t believe what he’s seeing. Teeth scraping against the shell of it. “Beautiful ears that I hope will listen to my words.”

More featherlight kisses up his temples, to the side of his forehead. “A beautiful, slightly messed up brain, that will hopefully remember them when it decides to get jealous again.”

And then down, to the corners of his eyes, until he has to close them because Steve places kisses onto his eyelids too. “Beautiful eyes that will hopefully come to see what I see.”

And further down, over his cheeks, and then to his mouth. Steve nudges with his nose against Bucky’s skin, and compliantly he tilts his head. Steve kisses him, maybe like he is taste testing ice cream. Deliberately slow. Letting it melt on his tongue.

“Beautiful mouth,” he says softly when they part, “that I’d like to repeat a few words after me.” Blue eyes find Bucky’s own through the mirror, and they look at him questioningly, asking him for an answer.

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky says, and his voice is raw, full of an emotion he can’t define.

“Here. This is how it goes: I’m strong and resilient, I’ve come so far.”

Bucky repeats it, slowly, shakily.

“I’m beautiful and fascinating. I am _good._ ”

Bucky almost chokes on the first adjective. But he says it.

“I’m more than my mistakes or my past.”

Even that he says.

“And Steve Rogers is crazy about me, because I am everything he wants.”

He has to smile at that one, and when he repeats it, and Steve looks at him with that look that says he is the most precious thing in his life, Bucky believes it. And not just for a few seconds. He looks back at himself, and he believes it.

Because everything that Steve touches turns into beautiful, glowing goodness.

Even Bucky, at some point.

Because after all, Steve is an artist.

He lets acceptance wash over him, closes his eyes into it, as it pulls his body into warm water. Steve hugs him harder, his other arm now around his waist too, and he kisses his ear again.

“I have a whole sketchbook full of you,” Steve says against his ear. “Your beautiful, stunning face.”

“That’s obsessive,” Bucky answers, his eyes still closed, but he smiles, and he can feel that Steve is too.

“Maybe a little, yeah.”

They get pulled out of their bubble of altered reality, a bubble where none of the people around them existed, and where they were the only ones left in the world. Wanda appears in the door frame to the kitchen. “Hey, Steve,” she says, “it’s time for your cake.”

He straightens his back, his blonde, _his boyfriend,_ and says, “Yeah. Just a minute.”

Wanda nods, disappears again.

Steve licks his lips, eyes still on Bucky’s through the mirror. “Let’s not have that happen again, yeah? That jealousy takes you over this bad?”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky mumbles, and he pulls out of Steve’s embrace. “I was stupid and I’m sorry.”

Steve smiles, sweetly and so full of love, that it hits Bucky right in his chest. “Don’t worry. It’s all water under the bridge now. I couldn‘t stay angry at you for long anyway.“

And then, as he pulls him by the hand back into the living room, loud enough so that the people crowding around the handmade kitchen table can hear, he asks, “D’you want cake, honey?”

Bucky wonders, while he eats and lets Steve throw him heart eyes.

How is any of this real? How is this his life now?

Because wasn’t he supposed to float in his sea of self-pity until he encountered a storm and drowned in it? Land on some shore as a water corpse - bloated, grown over with slick algae?

Instead, he got washed up on the beach of an island. An island with palm trees, white sand, and constant sunshine. A whole island for himself.

~~~

At around 5 pm Steve makes a short announcement that they’re ready to go and see fireworks now (even though they only start two hours later, but they want good spots to watch), and everyone who wants to join should now get their stuff, and anyone who wants to stay because of the “amazing food” or the drinks they’re going to have later, they should turn to Bruce, who’s in charge of Steve’s house while he’s gone.

“You’re staying here?” Bucky asks him while Steve is talking to the group of people that are coming with him.

Bruce sighs, and for a moment he looks like he’s just _so tired._ “Yeah. I have photosensitive epilepsy and a history of seizures in response to fireworks, so… No other choice.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” His eyes fall to the hallway where bags and jackets are stacked. “I brought a book and some work with me. So I’m all set.” He looks back at Bucky. “Are you going?”

Bucky knows that he’s thinking of Bucky’s freak out in the bar, and he feels his cheeks flush, although it shouldn’t be embarrassing. He can’t help his mental illnesses. If he could, he’d definitely wouldn’t have them.

Sam appears out of nowhere, claps his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and he flinches hard.

“Hey there, scaredy cat. Maria and I are leaving now. You still want to join?”

Thinking about it for a moment, he looks around. He could stay at Steve’s place. Go upstairs and watch a movie on Steve’s laptop, or stay with the remaining people downstairs. Then he thinks about how Steve mentioned they were going to have drinks later, and he remembers that he can’t drink because of his medication and that watching people get drunk while staying sober isn’t really one of his favorite things to do.

Maybe he should accept Sam’s offer and see what the whole _Mamma Mia_ thing is about.

“Yeah, just… let me get my stuff and quickly talk to Steve, okay?”

“Sure thing. We’re waiting for you.”

Bucky says goodbye to Bruce, who gives him an understanding smile, and then he hurries upstairs to get his bag.

While he’s packing his things together, someone enters the room. Throwing a look over his shoulder, he sees Steve, closing the door behind him to lean against it.

“You making a getaway?” he asks.

“I.. um- Well. Yeah.” Bucky gets up.

“Oh. Okay. Why?” Steve’s disappointed. Of course he is. It’s his birthday and not only did Bucky manage to insult and upset him earlier, now he’s also leaving early.

“I just-... I can’t really go watch the fireworks with you. And staying would mean watching all of you get drunk later, while I don’t, and… I dunno.” He shrugs.

Steve pushes himself away from the door and walks over to his wardrobe. “First of all, I’m not getting drunk either, later, so, you could stay, if you want. And secondly, I’m pretty sure you’re able to join for fireworks.” With those words, he pulls something out of a stack of clothes and offers it to Bucky.

It’s a present.

“Steve, I don’t think you understand who gets gifts on a birthday,” he answers, and it’s supposed to sound like a joke, but for some reason, it doesn’t. “It’s not your guests.”

He laughs anyway and stretches his arm out even further, shaking his hand and the package a little. “C’mon. Take it.”

“I can’t. Not on your birthday that-... I didn’t bring you a gift to because you denied me to bring any gifts. And now you’re _giving_ me one.” Bucky crosses his arms in front of his chest in refusal.

“I asked for one gift,” Steve grins, “and if I remember correctly, that was you to be here.”

“I’m not your gift,” Bucky mutters with a frown.

“You’re not?” Steve widens his eyes in false shock and drops the present on the bed. “Oh, Jesus. You’re right. You’re not. Wait here.” And then he takes off faster than Bucky is able to tell him that he should go fuck himself.

He bolts down the stairs, and Bucky is left staring at the present.

It’s red, with an abstract flower pattern on it.

Then Steve already comes running up the stairs again, he takes three steps at once (Bucky is honestly amazed by how he can do that and not land on his face) and closes the door behind himself with a slam.

In his hand, he’s holding a blue gift ribbon. Presses it with the taped side onto Bucky’s chest, right where his scar is under his shirt. And then he smiles. “There we go. You’re a gift now. You fulfilled your duty for this birthday, now open my gift.”

“You’re fucking _ridiculous,_ Rogers, do you know that?”

“Yeah. You tell me every other day. Please. Open it.”

His smile is dripping with sugar, and Bucky sighs, takes the present where Steve dropped it onto the bed, and carefully opens the wrapping paper, so it doesn’t rip. “This really isn’t fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, baby,” Steve laughs, and nudges his hands to go faster, but Bucky takes his time.

“I don’t get why you tell everyone to get you something, and you leave me being the only one without a present for you.”

“Because,” Steve says, “there isn’t anything you could give me that would make me happier than having you here.”

_I think that she will be happier about you being there than about any present._

“Don’t say that,” Bucky gets out.

“I mean it.”

Bucky has no idea what to respond to that. He keeps on unwrapping the present and reveals a box with-

headphones.

His eyes fly to Steve’s, who’s grinning like stupid, and he frowns. “Uh, thanks. But I… Why are you giving me headphones?”

Steve starts giggling. “Oh, you’re fucking adorable.” He turns the package in Bucky’s hands, and says, “You know, reading helps.” He points to something on the box.

_Stop the world around you and start the music. Active noise cancellation of up to 120db._

“You could stand next to a plane, and you wouldn’t hear it taking off,” Steve says with a grin. “I already tested them at the noisiest places I could find. And lemme tell you, the subway isn’t even a challenge for these babies.” He nudges the box. “C’mon. Try them out.”

Bucky’s speechless.

How does he deserve this?

Taking the headphones carefully out of the box, Steve already pulls out his phone, opening Spotify. “You have to download an app to set them up, but other than that they’re pretty easy to use, it’s got Bluetooth, so no wires and…” He puts them over his head, and suddenly, Steve’s voice is gone.

He sees Steve talking but can’t hear a single thing. The noise from downstairs has completely drowned under the song that his blonde has put on, and he can’t hear anything else but music.

As the song plays on, Bucky feels his heart swell.

This man.

He has no idea how to describe the feeling that’s flowing in his chest, current so strong, it almost throws him off balance.

Pulling the headphones from his head again, he just looks at Steve, explaining specs and features and what special stuff the headphones can do, and he can’t believe that he has this man in his life. That Steve chose him.

“You know, you’re pretty fucking hard to top,” he gets out when Steve pauses in his monologue. His voice sounds strangled.

“Oh,” Steve grins, “with a little bit of time and lube, everything’s possible.”

Bucky stares at him for a few silent seconds in disbelief, and then they both start laughing. For a while, Bucky just can’t stop laughing, because the innuendo came out of nowhere and took him completely by surprise, and he forgot what he was going to tell Steve.

“I ruined the moment,” Steve observes, still laughing, pulls him close and kisses his temple. “Totally ruined whatever romantic thing you were gonna to say.”

“Totally,” Bucky wheezes, struggling for air.

Kisses with laughter trail down to his cheek and then his jawline. “Sorry,” Steve giggles against his skin. “But you’re so pretty when you’re laughing.”

“Yeah?” Bucky manages to ask between his laughs, “Really?”

“It’s when you’re prettiest,” Steve confirms, his own laughter dying down.

“I must’ve been damn ugly in the first few weeks that we met then,” Bucky says, and he’s only half joking.

Steve’s fingers close around Bucky’s jaw, and he pulls him, so they’re looking at each other. “No. You’re always beautiful - just most beautiful when you’re laughing and smiling.”

Bucky tries to avert his eyes from Steve’s loving gaze, because he’s blushing like crazy, but Steve just tips his chin up, not allowing Bucky to look away. “Guess I have to constantly laugh then,” he answers and it sounds lame to his ears, but Steve smiles like a million dollars.

“Win-win situation, you’re easy on my eyes, _and_ you‘re happy.” His thumb brushes over Bucky’s chin and then pulls his lower lip down. “Which is partially the only thing that I care about, so maybe it’s even a double win-win situation.”

“Me being happy?” Bucky asks, starting to feel drowsy by Steve’s touch.

“Exactly.” And then his smile softens down, lopsided and full of endearment. “You’re making that face again,” his blonde says.

“What face?” Bucky responds with a mutual smile, although his is a lot fainter, since his muscles don’t seem to respond to his favors anymore.

“You know exactly what face.” The fingers around his chin and on his jaw pull him closer. “Like you’re really dying to kiss me.”

It gets hard to not go cross-eyed and still look into Steve’s baby blue ones, so he doesn’t even bother and lets them slip down to his lips. “I should probably do that then, huh?”

“You should definitely do that,” Steve answers, his voice jumping down a couple of halftones, getting a rasp to it that makes Bucky’s stomach drop.

He leans forward, into the little space that is left between them, close enough so that they’re just about to kiss. And he waits there for a couple moments, thinks about how this incredible and that he is just so _happy._

After just a few more seconds of waiting, Steve grows impatient (can’t fool anyone here), brings his hands up into Bucky’s neck, and their opened mouths meet. Fingers through his hair and to his jaw, taking control over movement and angle. Bucky's just about to let himself get washed over, bed his head in haziness when someone knocks on the door. He almost freezes, but Steve’s lips sure make him pliant again, following his movements, letting himself float in the feeling of Steve, until it knocks again, more vigorously this time. Steve turns so their cheeks touch, and he laughs, softly. “It’s occupied!”

“Steve, I know you and Bucky are in there making out,” a girl says from outside, and Bucky tries to remember who the voice belongs to.

“Totally not,” Steve answers, moving back to Bucky and kissing him again, deep and slow, and Bucky decides that he really couldn’t care less about whoever is in front of the door.

“You’re gonna miss your own fireworks, Steve,” the girl says. “C’mon, guys, you can still fondle with each other once we’re there. I’ll even take photos.”

“We’re not _fondling!_ ” Bucky objects, pulling away from Steve who peppers down kisses on his cheek and neck. Because Steve is an ass, he takes a chunk of skin from Bucky’s neck between his teeth, and a moan just somehow escapes Bucky’s lips.

“Okay. I'm gonna leave _._ Be downstairs in five minutes, _clothed,_ or we’re leaving without you guys.”

“Is five minutes enough?” Steve asks, mischievousness in his voice, making his way up Bucky’s throat, to place a kiss under his jaw.

“For what exactly?”

“Leaving a few new hickeys on your really beautiful neck for everyone to see?”

Bucky smiles at the thought but pulls up his blondes face so he will kiss him again. “I’d sure like that, but it would probably end up in a really embarrassing situation for me,” he explains.

“Oh, well,” Steve replies, and he sounds just the slightest bit surprised, “then lets just, you know-”

“Yeah, great idea,” Bucky interrupts with a smile and kisses him again.

Slowly, deliberately. Maybe like he is taste testing ice cream.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Start line: “They all clink glasses together, so Bucky does too, mumbles “cheers” when (...)” and end line at “Bucky doesn’t know how much time passes, but when he really notices the glow of the setting sun behind tall buildings (...)”. 
> 
>  
> 
> \----
> 
>  
> 
> UHHH so yeah. Hi. sorry that this took so long. I had this chapter roughly finished in like a span of five days after i posted the last and then i just felt like i had to complete the next (and last) chapter before i could post this one. (fun fact: i wrote most of the scenes for steve’s birthday on the actual 4th of july in 2k17! Kinda wild that it took so long to reach this point) Hopefully the last chapter will be up sooner, but i can’t promise anything. It’s still missing a little bit of the max word count i have set for myself.  
> I am terribly sad that this story is coming to a close, i don’t want to leave my boys just yet! So if any of you have any cravings for more of these two and my writing, then feel free to leave me a prompt! 
> 
> thank you so much for reading, and staying with me through out this incredibly long writing process. i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did.


	9. a little info along the way (and how to get out of that low mood)

 

This writer has issues. Mental health issues, to be precise. This writer is a little fucked up, but that’s okay. On a lot of days, this writer’s bedroom looks like a messy has been living in it for the past year, sometimes this writer doesn’t shower for six days straight, and sometimes this writer doesn’t see the sun in days.

I thought I’d start this like the description of my fic for comedic reasons but it sounds just very sad lmao 

(lil note: i wrote this in july, when i had a few bad weeks, but now moved this "chapter" because it bothered me that it was in the very middle of the story. the info about the delayed chapter isn't up to date anymore.)

So!!! This week I’ve been depressed (still am), and it makes me currently hate every. single. word. of the ten thousand I wrote for the upcoming chapter; that feeling will probably go away in another week again, but until then - so so so sorry, I can't upload right now. This isn't to get condolences or pity or anything, it's just a psa because I mentioned in the comments that I was almost finished with the next chapter and that the next upload wouldn't take that long. BUT it probably is going to take a little longer so I am sorry about that  
  
To make this a little more informative I decided to take this opportunity to write about how to feel better when you're in an acute low mood!  
(I guessed that a few readers might be interested in the themes of this fic because they themselves have mental health issues like I do lol) Anyone that isn't currently depressed and needs some tips on feeling better - I'll talk to you in form of end-notes somewhere hopefully soon :)  
  
Here’s a thing:

When you have bad mental health, sometimes you just forget the things you used to like, and that’s okay! I’m (hopefully) here to the rescue. To get out of a low (and the vicious downward spiral depression is) doing little things that can instantly give you a happiness boost are very, very helpful!  
So here are several sources that list a loooot of activities, cross out the things you like and try doing something of it, even if you don't feel like it. Like Bucky's therapist said "we all deserve happiness", especially when our brain tells us the opposite.  
What's really important about these activities is that to be suitable for low days (like I call them), they should be quickly manageable and they should pretty much instantly give you a better feeling when you do the activity. So for example, doing exercise can't always be helpful (thanks for the advice tho, Steve lol), since it takes a lot of effort to get the stuff to do it, satisfaction may only come in afterwards when you're exhausted etc (speaking from a depressed point of view), but to some people a little walk around the block might be it to kickstart their motivation for self care. Whatever it is that will make you feel better, find it, and keep your list somewhere you can easily see it when you feel down (maybe somewhere on the wall next to your bed, or in a box under it?) anyway, here are a few links to sites that list activties!

 

[ 183 Pleasurable Activities to Choose From ](http://elishagoldstein.com/assets/183-pleasurable-activities-to-choose-from.pdf) (start with this one and read the introduction if you want to have a few more small rules on choosing an activity)

[ The Big List of Pleasurable Activities ](http://www.lmgroeszpsychotherapy.com/uploads/9/7/5/2/9752967/big_list_of_activities.pdf)

[ 200 Pleasurable Activities For Combating Depression ](https://sites.google.com/site/cognitivetherapycenterofli/self-help-materials/pleasurable-activities)

[ List Of Pleasurable Activities | Psychological Health Boosters ](https://dynamicyou.org/list-of-pleasurable-activities-psychological-health-boosters/)

[ Behavioural Strategies for Managing Depression ](http://www.cci.health.wa.gov.au/docs/ACFB003.pdf) (page 4-5, but the rest is quite interesting too; [ there is another version ](http://www.cci.health.wa.gov.au/docs/KYB-4%20Behavioural%20Strategies%20for%20Depression.pdf) that explains “The Vicious Cycle” and has a few alternate points on the list.)

  
  
I know these are a lot different sources and list (you don’t need to read through every single one of course!), but maybe you can make yourself a “masterlist” of all the things you liked and print it out/write it down. Spending time with yourself, reflecting about behaviour and interests might seem boring, but can actually be good for you too! (For example writing this and collecting these links gave me a mood boost lol) 

Another thing I learned from therapy was to make a little "emergency mental health first aid kit" in times when you're happy, so you can remember how to when you're not. Anything can go in that box, if that's a photograph of a place you like, something tied to a memory, a certain smell you like, fabric you think feels nice, little snacks, something with intense flavor, a cd with music that makes you want to dance, the number of a friend that will listen to you.... these are just a few examples, but literally anything can go in it! If you like to, paint the box nicely, decorate it, or don't. Whatever you do with it is up to you. ([here is a link ](http://www.drcordes.com/blog/safetykit) to an example of a mental health first aid kit - but you can personalize it as much as you want to!)  
  
Sometimes it's very hard to start caring for yourself again, but a thing that will almost always have a positive effect on me is showering and washing my face, and then putting on some clothes. But getting out of bed and sitting somewhere can also sometimes just be enough.  
Don't forget to eat and drink! If there's sun outside, maybe try sitting somewhere it shines (that can also be inside), and feel the warmth on your skin - Vitamin D is also responsible for our bodies’ endorphin production! This won’t make you instantly happy of course, but I found that for me sitting in the sun helps immensely to start doing something/feel good enough to start caring for myself.

Sorry that this was so much, I hope it helps someone!

And really, I apologize to anyone who thought this would be an update for the next chapter, life is hard okay, I’m just human lol

 

Sincerely,

your writer

 

 

(Ps: The Lovely Eggs is a band that will crack me up at any time with their songs. They are so ridiculously bad. Amazing. Check them out. "[Don't Look At Me I Don't Like It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2uuMy2ZN7A8)" and "[Don't Patent That Shoe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fKowgGS36uI)" are my favorites)


	10. helplines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i am missing one of your countries, [this website](http://www.suicide.org/suicide-hotlines.html) also lists international suicide hotlines, and specific ones for your state, if you're in the usa (it even tells you if the hotline is reachable via email, phone, text, etc)

 

 

Australia: [ **000** ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/000_\(emergency_telephone_number\)) **national emergency number**

  * [**Lifeline**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lifeline_\(crisis_support_service\)) (<https://www.lifeline.org.au/>)


  * [**Kids Helpline**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kids_Helpline) (<https://kidshelpline.com.au/>)



Bangladesh:

  * [**Kaan Pete Roi**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaan_Pete_Roi) (<http://shuni.org/>)



Canada:

  * [**Kids Help Phone**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kids_Help_Phone) (<http://org.kidshelpphone.ca/>)


  * [**The Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention**](http://suicideprevention.ca/) (CASP) (<http://suicideprevention.ca/>)
  * **Suicide Action Montréal** (<http://suicideactionmontreal.org/>)
  * **Amelia Rising Sexual Assault Centre of Nipissing** (<http://www.ameliarising.ca/>)
  * **Trans Lifeline** (<http://www.translifeline.org/>)
  * **Youthspace.ca** (<http://youthspace.ca/>) accessed via IM on the website or through text (778-783-0177)



France: [ **15** ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emergency_medical_services_in_France) **national emergency number**

  * [**Fil santé jeunes**](http://www.filsantejeunes.com/) : 0800 235 236 :
  * [**Suicide écoute**](https://suicideecoute.pads.fr/accueil) : 01 45 39 40 00 (24-hour)
  * [**SOS Suicide Phénix**](https://www.sos-suicide-phenix.org/) : 01 40 44 46 45
  * [**Sos amitié**](https://www.sos-amitie.com/) : distress listening on multimedia platform : phone, email, chat
  * [**La Croix Rouge Ecoute**](http://www.croix-rouge.fr/Nos-actions/Action-sociale/Ecoute-acces-aux-droits/Telephonie-sociale) : 0 800 858 858



Germany:

  * **Telefonseelsorge** (<http://www.telefonseelsorge.de/>) (24/7, no cost): 0800 111 0 111 (Protestant), 0800 111 0 222 (Catholic), 0800 111 0 333 (for children and youth)



India:

  * **AASRA** (<http://www.aasra.info/>) (24-hour)



Iran:

  * **Iran Organization of Well Being** (<http://moshaver.behzisti.ir/page.aspx?id=1480>)
  * free and governmental hotline **1480**



Ireland:

  * [**Samaritans**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samaritans_\(charity\)) (<http://www.samaritans.org/>)



Italy:

  * **Servizio per la Prevenzione del Suicidio (SPS)** (<http://www.prevenireilsuicidio.it/>)



Japan:

  * **TELL** (<http://telljp.com/lifeline/>)



Korea:

  * **Suicide.org** ([suicide.org](http://www.suicide.org/hotlines/international/south-korea-suicide-hotlines.html)) has a list of South Korean suicide hotlines.
  * Other sources ([eatyourkimchi.coml](http://www.eatyourkimchi.com/suicide-in-korea/)) are available for Koreans and English speakers living in Korea.



Mauritius:

  * **Mauritius Suicide Prevention Lifeline**



Netherlands:

  * **113 Suicide Prevention** (<https://www.113.nl/>) (24-hours)



New Zealand:

  * **Lifeline Aotearoa** ([http://www.lifeline.org.nz](http://www.lifeline.org.nz/)) (24-hours)



Romania:

  * **Alianţa Română de Prevenţie a Suicidului** (<http://www.antisuicid.com/>)



South Africa:

  * **LifeLine Pietermaritzburg** (<https://www.facebook.com/LifeLinePietermaritzburg>)



United Kingdom:

  * **PAPYRUS Prevention of Young Suicide** (<https://www.papyrus-uk.org/>)
  * [**Samaritans**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samaritans_\(charity\)) (<http://www.samaritans.org/>)
  * [**Campaign Against Living Miserably**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Campaign_Against_Living_Miserably) (<https://www.thecalmzone.net/>)



United States:

  * [**911**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/9-1-1) **national emergency number**
  * The [**National Suicide Prevention Lifeline**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Suicide_Prevention_Lifeline) (<http://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/>)
  * [**Crisis Text Line**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crisis_Text_Line) ([crisistextline.org](http://crisistextline.org/)) (24/7)
  * [**Samaritans**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samaritans_\(charity\)) (<http://www.samaritans.org/>)
  * **The San Francisco Night Ministry (**[ **http://www.sfnightministry.org/**](http://www.sfnightministry.org/) **)** (10 p.m. and 4 a.m.)
  * [**The Trevor Project**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Trevor_Project) (<http://www.thetrevorproject.org/>)
  * **Trans Lifeline** (<http://www.translifeline.org/>)



 


	11. just another info, that will be deleted when i update. sorry for the wait

 

 

 

So. well. hi. sorry for the... insanely long wait. things are crazy. my life is crazy.

I have moved (twice) in the past 4 months, have been accepted into art college (my dream!!!) and started working at a service dog school, which is hella interesting, but also hella time-consuming and exhausting! 

the last chapter has uhh.... morphed into three more chapters. i have accidentally written about 60k more words instead of the original 20, so... now i am stuck with three mostly-finished chapters, that WILL come out, but... i don't know when, yet. really sorry, i am just incredibly busy.

but happy! holy shit!

because for the first time in my life (at least from what i can remember) I am happy. not just for the moment, for a few sweet hours, but for.. weeks, months. I am happy. for years i have been living in a haze, in some kind of nebulous existence, i couldn't tell when i was doing okay, a little bit worse, or horrible. now i am legitimately happy for the first time in years, not just _okay_ for a period of time longer than 3 days. i now finally notice when i am not okay, when i am getting stressed, when i am about to dissociate. 

 

this is just to tell you, that what i have been preaching in the notes: it does get better. unbelievable, even for me in the past, but it does. it does get better. life will get better, it will surprise you, it will show you that all that time that you've been fighting, it was worth something. 

i just wanted to say it again: i thought - maybe, this was how i was supposed to be. i didn't know any different. i had been living like this for more than ten years. i had been in such a constant state of misery, that i accepted it as my normality. but here i am. actually being happy. unbelievable. i am still thrilled whenever i notice how much lighter my chest feels, how much easier it is to move, to do the most mundane things. insane. 

But, there is more. let's get to the big news, shall we?

 

I have also been diagnosed with DID - dissociative identity disorder, more popularly known as multiple personality disorder, and falsely known as schizophrenia (which is something entirely different and has to do with hallucinations).

this was, obviously, kind of a shock. after more than ten years of being told "ah yes this is some nice and fine depression you have there" (although i knew it also had to be ptsd, since i did have a pretty traumatic childhood), suddenly you're being told, "hey, actually... you've developed a personality/identity disorder and have gone absolutely mental!".

yeah, that was some news to swallow. i am now officially crazy, i guess?! which is cool. being crazy is alright. who isn't a little bit crazy? (remember when i said we all know those people who seem super alright and constantly happy that make us question what is wrong with us? i have/had one of those people in my life too, and turns out, they are mentally ill too! i guess everyone's a little bit crazy, deep down.)

 

this revelation currently makes the writing process for ADSN a little harder. this bucky i am writing has always been part of my own experience with mental illness, what i have lived through, what i at some point in time have thought myself. it's incredibly important for me to make him relatable, but also have him recover, get better. i am now too at a point of getting better, which is nice for that aspect, but a lot of the other symptoms that my bucky has are not relatable to myself and my own situation anymore.

my problems and symptoms have been much easier to identify now that i actually have another state of mind to compare it to. what had been previously diagnosed as depression/depressive episodes (this always makes me chuckle, episodes last 3-6 months, not over several years, but well) was apparently one of my alter personalities. (there are a few others that i have come to meet, just two weeks ago i met a new one that without consent cut my damn hair! fucking crazy) 

so. relating to my bucky, without suddenly making him have DID is... harder. I will have to make do, somehow. I don't want to bring in another mental illness into the elaborate cocktail i have mixed for bucky, especially since all of this is relatively fresh i don't know too much about DID. so, if anyone would like to point me towards resources and books on dissociative identity disorder, feel free to leave me a comment, or hop over to [my tumblr](http://captainplum.tumblr.com) and send me a dm! 

 

**which brings me to my last news, some good news again, in october (if everything goes the way i am planning it), my new puppy called mango will move in with me and become a psychiatric service dog!** i am  _so_ happy about that, you wouldn't even believe it. 

my work in the past few months with a lot of different people (and a lot of PTSD and DID patients with their service dogs) has come to show me how  _much_ those dogs can actually do for us (i've had a few incidents of dogs alerting me to dissociations, and trying to break them, and succeeding in doing so, lol). i am hella excited, and if by that time this fic still isn't finished, maybe i will give you an update on mango, and if can manage to do so, even a picture. 

 

until then:

 

thanks for the patience, for everyone who is still here.

this will get finished, don't you worry. just takes some time. 

lots of love, life will get better, 

your writer! 

(my name is fynn, by the way. nice to meet you.) 

 

(also. you. whoever rec'd this fic to [thestuckylibrary](https://thestuckylibrary.tumblr.com/). i love you. it made the fic gain like 400 more views in three days or something. )


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